


Wade Wilson's Guide to Studying Your Spider

by X_Gon_Give_It



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Misunderstanding, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter has spidery behaviors, Peter is a Little Shit, Slow Burn, Smut, Spidery!Peter, Spidey gets nicked with a drug, Wade has taken it upon himself to study these spider behaviors, Wade is smarter than people give him credit for, bad drug trips, building relationships, but the smut comes later, clever!Wade, molting, spider courting rituals, spider eating habits, spider quirks, thick skin - literally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24979870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/X_Gon_Give_It/pseuds/X_Gon_Give_It
Summary: After months of working with Spider-Man, Wade Wilson realizes there are a lot more to the hero's powers than meets the eye...AKAThe one where Wade notices that Spider-Man has been acting weirder and weirder, and the more he looks into it, the more he realizes that his not-so-normal partner in crime(fighting) is a lot stranger than he thought.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Spider-Man/Deadpool
Comments: 186
Kudos: 929





	1. Strange Occurrences

**Author's Note:**

> SHOUTOUT and BIG THANKS to me beta-reader Peter, who was amazing and stayed up late reading over this for me. Your amazing, my dude! Love ya!

Wade didn't know _what_ he should've expected.

With a name like _Spider-Man,_ it should've been self-explanatory. A guy gets bitten by a spider, inherits spider-powers, and uses said powers to fight crime. It's basic and straight-forward. While it may leave a lot to the imagination, and even more questions unanswered, it wasn't very complicated on the surface.

And yet, Wade had a shovel in the dirt and was ready to dig for treasure.

It started with an explosion.

He felt the heat before he heard the boom, and was halfway through the building across the street before his brain could shout 'YEAH, THAT'S A BOMB, DIPSHIT.' He lay underneath a pile of plaster, drywall, and bricks, coughing up dust and grime. Head ringing, and body stinging with its new burns and cuts, he contemplated making that his new home. It was kind of comfy if he didn't put a lot of thought into the wooden beam impaling his leg.

It wouldn't take long for his ruptured eardrums to heal, but still, _DAMN_.

Those slimy mud fuckers brought a bomb.

Wade crawled his way out of the mess, yanking the beam out as he went. He was just getting to his feet when a section of the wall was kicked across the room and a red and blue figure stumbled out of the rubble as well. Spider-Man had been running point with him before the explosion, and while Wade recalled him recoiling a split second before it went off, even _he—_ with all this spider speed and agility _—_ hadn't been fast enough to escape the blast radius.

"Webs," Wade felt his mouth say, but didn't hear. Judging by the red stains on the sides of Spider-Man's head, his ears were bleeding, so hearing was off the table for him too.

Regardless, Spider-Man turned to him a second after the nickname left Wade's mouth.

It was probably just a spider-sense thing, alerting him that Wade was nearby yada, yada, yada.

Spider-Man gestured widely to his ears and the torn mask that moved up and down as he shouted something Wade couldn't detect. But his message was clear: _busted ears, can't hear a thing_ ; which only proved his point.

Together, they stumbled out of the mess and peered out of the—thankfully—vacated building and into the street. Outside, the battle was a hectic image of a superhero/clay people slugfest. A weird bald hermit guy—Mole Man, Wade recalled—was standing a distance from the actual fight, urging his minions to enact his plan of sinking the city into the ground, or whatever the fuck his schtick was about. Little clay golems and globs were running around the street, swarming the Fantastic Four, and setting up more bombs to the surrounding buildings.

Reed had said something about Mole Man being sensitive to light, and what Wade wouldn't give to have a UV lamp stashed in his pouches. He'd just shine that thing on the little sucker and watch him squirm until he gave up. Damn him for planning his attack at night like an intelligent bad guy.

The sounds of battle were muffled and far-away, but it was a vast improvement to the ringing pain that had been bouncing through his skull. Give him another 5 minutes tops, and he'd be back to normal. Spider-Man, on the other hand, grimaced and touched the bloody side of his head. It was probably going to take him a bit longer to heal from this.

Wade touched the bloodied area softly with his thumb, and when Spider-Man turned to him, he pointed to the mess and gave a questioning thumbs up. Spider-Man returned the gesture with more confidence, yelling something muffled—and probably flippant—about how he would be just fine, it would heal, blah blah blah, and was marching back out into the battle without a second thought.

Wade shrugged and did a quick weapon check as he followed. Hearing or not, Spidey could handle himself in a fight. He didn't need to worry about a glob of soggy clay sticking to his leg like a humping chihuahua.

By the time Sue Storm had floated down from the invisible barrier she'd created, Wade's ears were fully functioning.

"Deadpool, help Ben drive them back. Spider-Man, Johnny could use a hand."

Wade lifted a finger, prepared to convey the information that Spider-Man couldn't hear _jack-shit_ and a quick game of charades was in order, when the man himself looked up at Sue and immediately went for the streak of human-fire circling the clay monster.

Wade's eyes followed him in confusion and his finger dropped.

"Uhh...if I didn't know any better—and I have a tingling feeling in my lower thigh that I should—but methinks that either our Spidey's healing got exponentially better, or something funky is going on here."

But that had to be addressed for another time, because Sue was already back to the fight and the Thing was getting overrun with clay monsters the size of large dogs. Checking his gun barrel one more time, Wade followed the Thing's gravely curses and got to work putting bullets into clay heads. They weren't alive, right? Maybe they were? They were made of clay, did that mean they would come back?

He shrugged as he shot another one through the head.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, _DOUBLE_ fuck you, fuck you–"

Overhead, a small figure swung by on web, but they didn't have the red and blue of the hero he was used to seeing swinging between buildings. It was the younger Spider-Man, red and black suit; a small little tike. 'Spidey Jr.' as Wade called him, because there were so many damn spider-people running around now it was getting ridiculous.

Spidey Jr. had joined the fight sometime earlier, and Wade couldn't help but keep an eye on him and the bonafide Spidey, as they swung around the accumulating mess of clay and mud that was turning into a large, dripping monster the size of King Kong. From the ground, Sue yelled something at Spider-Man, but unlike last time, he didn't register a word, and it took Spidey Jr. tapping him on the shoulder and motioning down to Sue and Reed—who were waving their arms to get his attention—to drop to the ground.

Wade jogged over to them as well. He had a gun in one hand, and a katana in the other, and he cleared enough of the buggers away to give the Thing some breathing room. Honestly, he was tempted just to use his swords. If not for the satisfying way their heads exploded, it would be a waste to use bullets on these mud monsters.

On cue, a small clay devil materialized next to him and he shoved the barrel of his gun into its head, pulled the trigger, and continued on his merry way as the head exploded in a burst brown and grey. He got to the group just as Spider-Man was motioning to his ears and yelling, "I CAN'T _HEAR_ YOU! I CAN'T– WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?"

Sue and Reed looked ridiculous, acting out the plan they were trying to convey. Wade snorted when Reed made an exaggerated spraying noise and mimicked a firefighter hose.

"DISTRACT IT," Sue was shouting, her hands cupped around her mouth for emphasis. "WE HAVE A PLAN. A _PLAN_. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

It took a few more rounds of yelling their plan to the bad guys before Spider-Man shot them a thumbs up and motioned to a street lamp, where Spidey Jr. had landed for a pit stop. Together, they shot back into the air, going double-time in throwing pieces of debris into the creature's face and covering its eyes with webbing.

"Hey, Reed, _baby_! Sue!" Wade approached them, arms out and inviting, "What about me? What can I do?"

Sue and Reed shared a prickly glance.

"Uh, I think we got it Deadpool. Just… take five, okay?"

Wade wasn't even given time to be offended before they were running off.

"What kind of plan doesn't include 200 pounds of unkillable cancer?" He shouted peevishly after them. He wasn't given a response and was already checking his ammunition and pulling his other katana out—intent on going in anyway—when a shadow coming off the light of a streetlamp zipped across the cement and he watched as Spider-Man lifted a giant scaffold of concrete with his webs, as easy as a kid playing with a cheap fishing rod toy, picking up little plastic fishes with a magnet.

He considered joining the fight, but looking over their numbers—and how the monster itself was already degrading—he grudgingly sheathed his katanas and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. He supposed he could just kick back and enjoy the view.

In all honesty, the Fantastic Four could've easily handled this side quest without their help. Wade and Spider-Man had just been on patrol and decided to tag along from the sheer boredom of their evening.

Johnny joined Spider-Man and Spidey Jr. in annoying the mud monster. Meanwhile, the Thing tore a fire hydrant open, so that Sue could use her barrier powers to create a tunnel that funneled the water straight into the monster's face, and then its chest.

After that, it didn't take long for the battle to wrap up. The monster crumbled away into sludge and mud, and Reed had grabbed Mole Man by the collar of his shirt before he could scuttle off to whatever hidey-hole he crawled out of. Sue addressed the police, who had set up a perimeter for the battle. Despite how lame Mole Man was, he HAD been doing heavy property damage.

Wade pushed off from his wall and jogged over to Spider-Man and Spidey Jr., who had landed just outside the giant mud pile caking the rest of the street. Both of them looked relatively unharmed, but from his position, Wade saw Spider-Man shout something and point to a gash on Miles' arm. Without warning, he wrapped it tightly in a web bandage.

That wasn't very strange, Wade's seen Spider-Man patch himself up plenty of times with his own webs. Sometimes, he patched Wade up too. Said it made him feel better, even though Wade knew webbing was expensive given the number of times Spidey's bitched about it to him on dull, uneventful nights.

What had him grinding to a confused halt was when Spidey Jr. proceeded to climb up Spider-Man's back and cling there like some kind of spider-human-koala hybrid. Arms curled over Webs' arms and shoulders, legs tucked by his sides, and head resting on the juncture between his neck and shoulder, he just...clung there as Spider-Man approached Reed.

Reed made a gesture towards Spider-Man's ears again, and this time Wade was close enough to make out what was being said.

"STILL HEALING. BUT I CAN HEAR A _LITTLE_."

"DO YOU WANT TO COME BACK TO THE BAXTER BUILDING AND GET PATCHED UP?" Reed shouted back.

"WHAT WAS THAT?"

"DO YOU. WANT TO. GET PATCHED UP. AT THE. BAXTER BUILDING?"

" _LOUDER_."

"I _SAID DO YOU-_ "

"REED, REED, I'M KIDDING! I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME! NO THANKS, I'M GOOD! I'LL BE FINE BY TOMORROW!"

Reed gave him an exasperated look and Wade snorted. Something else must've caught Spider-Man's attention, since he approached Johnny to help him and Ben clean up the debris and scaffolding littering the street. Wade stopped next to Reed, arms crossed.

"Hey, Sir Stretch, you know what that's about?" He nodded to Spidey Jr. who was still clutching onto Spider-Man's back.

Reed looked up from the cuffs he was slapping on Mole Man and followed Wade's eyes.

"Spider-Man and the kid? Oh, he's his mentor. Showing him the ropes and the tricks of the trade, especially when it comes to their specific power sets–"

"I KNOW what a mentor and mentee relationship is, _Rubberband_. I _mean_ why is he giving the squirt a piggy-back ride? He didn't look _that_ injured."

"Oh, that's what you meant." Reed fixed the two with a stare again, a curious gleam lighting his eyes. "They've always done that as far as I can remember. I suspect it has something to do with their shared spider biology. You know, some spider species have been known to carry their young on their back, and combined with their human nature that–"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa–" Wade cut him off with a wild gesture. "Hold up. Young? That's not Webs' actual _kid_ , is it?"

Reed looked tempted to roll his eyes, but instead, he hoisted Mole Man back up, who'd been trying to tiptoe away. He wrapped his arm around him several times as an extra measure.

"No, as far as I'm aware, Spider-Man is not...well, _Spider-Man's_ kid–"

"They really need to find a way to differentiate those two." Wade mumbled.

"Yes, well, they're not related to my knowledge. Aside from their spider-powers, that is. It's probably just an effect of an inborn arachnid instinct. They've been doing it for a while. Given how long you and Spider-Man have been teaming up lately, I'm surprised you didn't know."

Wade hummed, rubbing his chin. Yeah, he's been patrolling with Spider-Man for a while now, but he's never seen him give back rides to the little runt before. Then again, they've never really fought alongside each other that often, and the few times that they had, Wade recalled taking a round in the chest the first time, and getting his lungs crushed from a speeding truck the second time.

By the time he was coming around, Spidey Jr. was gone. So maybe he just hadn't been awake for it.

He clapped Reed's shoulder with a merry grin. "Adios, Mr. Above-Average, muchas gracias."

He poked Mole Man's weirdly shaped head as he went, and sauntered up to Spider-Man, who was finishing up with a large chunk of what used to be a wall. As he heaved and hoed, he was asking:

"DID YOU FINISH YOUR HOMEWORK?"

"Yes." Spidey Jr. huffed, sounding equal parts exasperated and embarrassed.

"DID YOU EAT BEFORE YOU CAME OUT HERE?"

"Yes, I had a sandwich."

"ALRIGHT, MAKE SURE YOU HAVE A GATORADE OR SOMETHING WHEN YOU GET HOME. AND RELAX THAT ARM AND EAT SOMETHING ELSE. ALSO, TAKE A NAP. RESTING IS ONE OF THE BEST WAYS TO HEAL."

"I know, I know, it's not like you've _TOLD_ me this a billion times."

Spider-Man was still putting too much volume in his words, but Spidey Jr.—oddly enough—wasn't raising his voice at all. In fact, if Wade was seeing correctly, then the kid was talking directly into Spider-Man's...hair? As if he secretly had an extra pair of ears somewhere in there.

Wade looked around, wishing there was someone, like Johnny or the Thing, who could point at them and go " _WHAT THE FUCK_ " so he could be sure he wasn't seeing things again.

Johnny, however, was helping Sue with crowd control—although he seemed to be riling them up more than anything—and Ben Grimm was focused a distance away on shoving a muddied car out of the way of his clean up.

There was no one to point out the weirdness in the situation, and given the amount of ridiculousness that followed Wade like a bad stench, he wasn't sure if he was allowed to call out shit himself.

Now that he was watching, he noticed the way Spidey Jr.'s hands softly rubbed against Spider-Man's shoulders, up and down. And stranger still, was Spider-Man reaching up on occasion, to give a quick rub to Spidey Jr.'s hand or wrist.

There was absolutely NOTHING sexual about the touch— _thank fuck—_ but it still had Wade squinting at the two of them. It looked like a soft affectionate gesture more than anything, but still, Wade was under the impression that rubbing people in public was weird AF.

At least that's that Domino and Weasel have been trying to drill into his brain.

Why did the spider-people get to rub, and Wade didn't?

Hanging back, Wade watched them for a few more minutes. They conversed a little longer before Wade decided to try his own experiment.

"Spidey," he said in his normal tone..

When Spider-Man showed no indication of hearing, he shouted louder, " _Spidey_?"

It was enough to catch Spidey Jr.'s attention.

"SPIDER-MAN!" He shouted, louder, and was rewarded with Spider-Man turning toward him.

"POOL? ARE YOU TALKING TO ME? MY EARS ARE STILL BUSTED YOU NEED TO SPEAK UP!"

Wade shot him a double thumbs-up, shouting, "JUST CHECKING," but his brain was racing. He watched the two until Spidey Jr. lamented that he needed to get home, and Spider-Man shouted out other post-battle remedies, like "DON'T FORGET TO WASH YOUR COSTUME!" and "THE GATORADE! DON'T FORGET ABOUT THE GATORADE!" as the younger kid swung off.

Spider-Man wasn't startled IN THE LEAST when Wade materialized next to him and simply jutted a thumb over his shoulder. He struggled to lower his voice, "ARe you REAdy to GO? I'm STARVING!"

Wade gestured to the mess they were SUPPOSED to be cleaning up.

Spider-Man brushed it off, and talked in a way he thought was a whisper, "Johnny and Ben can finish it up. If we move now, we can be 3 blocks away by the time they notice we're gone."

Wade pushed his thoughts about blasted eardrums and weird spider antics aside and grinned, "Webs, you're speaking my language. Let's get out of here before the grown-ups notice."

Whether he heard it or not, he could see Spider-Man grin through the torn part of his mask and he climbed on when Spider-Man offered to piggy-back. Wade was struck with how just 5 minutes ago, Spidey Jr. was doing the same thing, but Spider-Man didn't seem inclined to rub _his_ hand.

How disappointing.

They were only 1 block away when Johnny was flaming on and Ben was storming after them—demanding that they return and help clean up the mess—but neither Wade nor Spider-Man could hear through their laughter. By the time they were safely tucked beneath a water tower—watching the Human Torch and the Thing charge by, promising to set them both on fire and clobber them—Wade had tucked the weird events of the night in the back of his mind, to be analyzed another time.

* * *

The second time Wade notices something strange about Spider-Man's behavior... is 2 weeks later.

They'd just finished off the night with a drug bust that they'd been following for the last few days. It was pretty minor—as far as drugs went—but the muscle hired for it was substantial, and it had taken a good 30 minutes to wrap up the whole shindig.

No one had been killed—maimed or injured, yes. But not killed—and there had been minimal injuries to _them_ other than a hit with a crowbar for Wade, and a pulled ankle when Spider-Man messed up a landing. But both were fairly unscathed and stayed after only long enough to bandage up—in Spidey's case, of course—and make sure the police picked the crooks up, before heading out.

Given the success of the night, they decided celebrations were in order, and high-tailed it to their favorite fast food joint for greasy food and sugary drinks.

Wade was paying for the food, and Spidey the smoothies, as was their routine. They had a whole system down. Spider-Man would hold the food, because he was a greedy ravenous raccoon underneath all that spandex, as Wade paid with their combined cash.

But it was different this time. Spidey left to use the bathroom, and by the time he was back out, the food was ready and being handed over to Wade.

It didn't seem like a big deal. Wade reasoned that he could just hold the food this time. No biggie. But he realized the second that he had taken the food, Spider-Man had appeared with his hands out to take it.

"Heh, sorry Webs. That's what you get for peeing so long."

Spider-Man was, oddly, quiet. He looked between Wade and the lady behind the counter, and strange stiffness seemed to slowly spread throughout his limbs.

"Oh. Yeah. Okay," he replied and quickly turned away. There was a strange cadence in his voice. It had lost its friendly vibe and had gone strangely tight and… almost bitter. As if Wade had betrayed his trust somehow.

Spider-Man didn't look at him, nor the woman, for the rest of their time in the restaurant, and continued like that as they climbed the fire escape to a building outside to get to their designated rooftops. Spider-Man got there before Wade, not bothering to slow down and wait for him, and when Wade pulled himself the rest of the way up, Webs was already sitting on the edge of the building, sipping glumly on the smoothie he'd snagged from Wade's hands.

Wade stood up straight, take-out bags hanging from his arms, smoothie clutched in a hand with the other planted on his hip. He waited a few seconds before Spider-Man finally looked over his shoulder at him.

"What's got your tighty whities in a bunch?" Wade huffed.

He saw Spider-Man's lips flatten into a thin line and he took another long sip of his smoothie, turning away again.

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Spidey," Wade plopped down next to him, but didn't hand the bag over just yet, "You were practically shooting death daggers at the lady in the shop. Did she spit in our food or something? Did she threaten to eat your future children? Was she an old high school bully who shoved your head in a toilet?"

"No, she wasn't." Spider-Man said around his straw, still very adamant about letting it go. "It… was nothing. Don't worry about it."

Wade leaned forward, almost off the ledge entirely, to give him a hard look. "Uh, you were giving me the cold shoulder too, Webs. I think I _WILL_ worry about it, thank you very much. Come on, what's wrong? You can tell your ol' buddy Wade."

Spider-Man didn't reply for a long time, then very quietly he muttered, "It was my job?"

Wade quirked an eyebrow, "Mc'Pardon?"

"Holding the food. That's _my_ job."

"That's... _that's_ why you're mad?"

Spider-Man scowled and looked away, "Yeah, whatever. I told you it was nothing, okay? Don't worry about it. It's stupid." He thrust his hand out, "Now can I PLEASE have my deep-dish pizza? Before I starve and you have to explain to the cops why you allowed Spider-Man to die over a Denny's."

Wade snorted but handed the bag over.

Once again, it wasn't a very big thing. Spider-Man normally dished out the food on their little team-ups and patrols, but strangely enough, the moment Wade handed out the bag and Spider-Man took it, he froze again and the part of his cheeks that Wade could see flushed red. His hand hovered in the air for a few seconds before he brought it to his chest, still staring at Wade as if he'd been given an elixir.

Wade looked up from his extra cheesy, meat-lovers slice that was sticking halfway out of his mouth and dripping sauce down his chin, "Uh… what?"

Spider-Man shook his head, but it seemed more to snap himself out of whatever stupor he was sliding into, then at Wade and his manners.

"Nothing, nothing, uh, here–" he picked up Wade's smoothie quickly, where it had been set on the ledge, and Wade took it without hesitation, but was fully aware of Spider-Man's eyes on him every second.

Wade took a long sip of the drink and Spider-Man wiggled.

He HONESTLY _wiggled_.

Wade might not have even noticed it any other night, because Spider-Man moved around a LOT, but it was just such another strange act on a piling mound of weirdness, that it stuck out. It looked like a _pleased_ wiggle. A _happy_ wiggle. And Spider-Man was digging into his pizza with heart and vigor, his mood restored.

Wade watched him through the corner of his eyes as they ate, but kept up the retellings of their night, and how badass they were for finishing off the drug cartel so quickly and smoothly. Spider-Man was just as happy about the night, but Wade had a niggling thought that it wasn't because of their drug bust.

The only time in their night when his mood dropped again, was during the sad slurping of his drink as the dregs of his smoothie was sucked through his straw. Spider-Man looked so disappointed, that Wade didn't mind handing over his smoothie, still halfway full.

Just like when Wade gave him food, his face flushed pink. He didn't freeze when he grabbed it this time and was thoughtfully drinking it seconds later. His lips were fixed in that downward tilt that Wade had found meant that he was thinking really hard about something. He's seen that same look on the nights when they ate after a particularly disappointing patrol or fight, or even on the rare occasions that his mask ripped and Wade could watch his lips move as he talked.

Whatever Spider-Man was contemplating, he seemed to come to a conclusion, and resolutely offered his half-eaten pizza to Wade, shoulders squared, and demeanor serious. Wade wanted to refuse it, because he's seen Spidey shirtless and while he had that muscle mass, Wade was positive he wasn't eating enough at home, and he didn't want to deprive him of a meal.

But Spider-Man looked so determined, jaw set and lips drawn in a tight line, that Wade didn't have it in him to reject it. Which seemed to be the right decision, because the moment Wade took it, Spider-Man's good mood came back full force, and he was kicking his legs out happily as he slurped up Wade's smoothie.

As Wade munched on both pizzas, he studied his partner again. There were a lot of strange things stacking up that were poking at Wade's brain now. Things he hadn't noticed before, but now that he thought about it, could recall separate similar occasions.

He thought about the way Spidey Jr. talked into his hair; carrying Spidey Jr. around on his back; the weird affectionate rubbing; getting upset when someone else took over his "job"; the flush on his face when he took his take-out bag; and the way he subtly wiggled when Wade accepted his food offering.

 _Inborn arachnid instincts_ , Wade recalled Reed saying. _Spider biology._

Maybe it was time for Wade to do a little studying of his own.


	2. On the Acid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, thank you so much for all the positive feedback last chapter!
> 
> Once again, a BIG thanks to my beta Peter for staying up through the night to read over this for me! You're amazing my dude!

Wade found out who Spider-Man was on accident.

It had been after a battle in Hell's Kitchen. It was small and mostly off the streets. They'd been fighting a group of ninjas who had a bad guy boner for Daredevil and being the chivalrous men-in-tights they were, Wade and Spidey decided to give the guy a hand. Apart from Devil's freakish enhanced senses, Spider-Man's inhuman abilities, and Wade's repertoire, it didn't take long to get the battle under wraps.

That didn't mean they went without their fair share of hits though. Spider-Man had gotten a cut on his head from a curved throwing blade–just above his brow–and it was leaking blood into his eyes and filling up the empty pocket of space in his lenses. Wade being the courteous gentleman he was, helped him find the closest empty bathroom to clean up in.

Either the blood-in-the-eyes was getting bad, or Spidey just thought Wade would bolt the moment they separated because he didn't hesitate to rip his mask off. Granted Wade normally would've high-tailed it out of there the second it was clear Spider-Man could finish on his own. He'd only stopped for a second to ask if Spidey needed anything else–like disinfectant, or even a paper towel that didn't have the durability of papier-mache like the ones stocked–when he saw him.

Spider-Man's mask was off, tossed on the counter next to him, and he was hunched over the sink, frantically cleaning the blood out of his eye. He'd looked up the moment Wade turned and–for a solid 3 seconds–they locked eyes. Then Wade was bolting from the bathroom as if he had the entire X-Men and their recruitment speeches chasing after him.

His heart was beating out the rhythm of a jackhammer and he found himself a nice cramped closest to hide himself in. It was a split-second decision. One he hadn't made since he was a kid running from the sound of his dad coming in through the front door. It was within the sanctuary of the brooms and mops, that he tried to scrub the memory from his mind.

That tangled brown hair, knotted and messy from the mask. His grimy, sweat-soaked face–good cheekbones and narrow chin–still flushed from the fight and colored purple on his jaw where a ninja had roundhouse kicked him. Those brown eyes, wide and panicked when they locked eyes, one half-squinting and smeared red as blood trickled into it.

Wade scrubbed at his face with his hands, "Forget it. Forget. Forget. _Forget_. We are _not_ breaking the superhero bro code, dammit! Nope, nope, nope, _nope_. Just forget about those eyes, and that hair, and the face."

When was the last time Web's shaved? The area around his chin looked dark and prickly, a stubble that didn't look groomed enough to be intentional.

 _Stop it! No, bad Deadpool._ Forget that sweat-soaked, blood-stained face. Erase it from your memories like everything else important in your life. If you can forget you have a daughter in that one issue run, you can forget _this_. Has Spidey been sleeping? He hadn't taken a hit in the eye, and yet, there had been purple bags under them. Even flushed and juiced after a fight, he still looked _exhausted_.

Wade smacked himself. _Hard_.

"No!" He said out loud, "No, damn you! Do NOT! Don't you _fucking_ dare," he grabbed a container of Clorox off the shelf and had it halfway unscrewed before his brain caught up with him. Ruining his eyes wouldn't ruin the memory, unfortunately. Honestly, Wade didn't think anything could.

Mephisto himself couldn't pull that memory from his head. He was going to remember those beautiful brown eyes–dark from lack of sleep–and that tangled bushfire he called hair–probably so soft and fluffy after being washed–for the rest of his miserable life.

It had only been a few seconds, but Spider-Man's face had been seared into Wade's brain. Grafted, carved, and welded. Stuck to live on in his messed-up thoughts in a permanent mantra of " _Holy fucking shit, holy fucking shit, holy fucking shit."_

Wade didn't know how long he was in there, but he jerked up, knocking his head into one of the higher shelves, when he heard a soft progression of knocks on the door. _Knock knock kna-knock-knock._ He saw a shadow through the crack on the floor, and his heart picked up again. He didn't need to see them to know who it was.

He shrunk in on himself in shame, but he timidly knocked back, finishing the rhyme. Spider-Man didn't open the door, which surprised him. Wade half-expected him to break it down and yell at him. Wade wouldn't have blamed him either. Instead, his shadow made a small, anxious shuffle.

"Hey," a pause, "Devil and I were going to grab something to eat. Did you want to join us?"

Wade's grip tightened around the mop he was forcing into a chokehold.

" _Yep_ ," he answered a bit too shrilly to be normal, even for him, "Yepper depper. Be right there in a minute. Gotta finish putting McMop out of his misery first. I'll be right there, Webs, no problemo. Save some chow-mein for me, okay. Ha ha, _okay_ , bye-bye. We'll see you."

Spider-Man's shadow hesitated, and Wade thought he might enter anyway, but instead, he slowly retreated, and Wade was left to his freak out. He did continue strangling the mop, then the broom, and he sprayed Windex in his eyes for good measure, before leaving the haven of his closest.

He left expecting to get yelled at. To be threatened in keeping his mouth shut. To get accused of being irresponsible and for ruining everything. He expected their strange friendship of late-night bad guy beatings and take-out food to come to a grinding halt. For Spider-Man to tell him to get out of his city and never come back. Or to maybe just throw him out himself.

The Avenger's would've. The X-Men _have_ done so already. The Fantastic Four haven't yet, but give them time.

Instead, a miracle happened.

Spider-Man didn't utter a word about it. He'd been unable to meet Wade's eyes for the rest of the night, and their banter was tight and awkward–as if they were both treading a hazy line–but Spider-Man pretended it never happened. Wade couldn't bring him to bring it up either. They both went with the easy route and escaped the confrontation _neither_ of them was prepared for.

That was several months ago, and Wade still didn't know his name.

Finding out who Spider-Man was would've been easy, especially now that Wade's seen his face. It was all he needed to track down who Spider-Man was, map out all his friends (new and old), make a list of what he did in his free time, and even figure out what his favorite type of socks were. But Wade didn't. He _refused_. There were boundaries that shouldn't be crossed, and while he crossed a _lot_ of boundaries, this wouldn't be one of them.

But that didn't stop Wade from watching him.

And yes, that sounded bad. But he'd only started doing it recently. It's not like he was staking out Spider-Man's house every weekend since that fateful day when Wade stumbled home with the memory of Spider-Man's face imprinted into the spaghetti noodles of his brain. He'd only been doing it a week and it wasn't for a selfish, malicious reason either.

It was for science.

Like right now as Wade fixed his position, hunkered low by a window, as he peered through the lenses of his military-grade binoculars. Being a mercenary had its perks. Like giving him the money to buy equipment that would make the United States Military drool like a salivating dog. Call it blood money, but these binoculars were the only way Wade had a clear view of Spidey's workplace without having to look through a sniper scope or attempt to go incognito in his civvies–which _never_ worked.

For all his time with Spider-Man, Wade was _still_ getting an extent of his spider-sense. It was a hard motherfucker to pin down. Which was ridiculous because it should've been so simple. "Danger-sense"–what's confusing about it?

According to Wade's silent observations ever since he first watched Spider-Man in action, it was frustratingly more complicated than that.

It didn't just warn Spider-Man of big dangers, like a bomb in the face, but to small dangers as well, like a pizza a degree too hot to eat. It warned him of flu germs too, as Spider-Man had divulged to him. And–according to Spider-Man's own mini rants–it could warn him of danger to his family and friends too. _How did_ _ **that**_ _work?_

This little precognitive ability, that made Spidey so _blasted_ hard to hit, fascinated Wade on a mercenary level.

He forewent taking hits on his special boy a _long_ time ago, but that didn't mean Wade didn't think about ways to get around his pesky spider-sense. Not to use it against him, just to scratch that itch on the back of his brain. He's even done little tests of his own to scope it out.

Nothing too serious or dangerous. Just small things, like pointing a gun at Spider-Man's back during a battle. A small one, of course–he wouldn't distract him if his life was _really_ in danger - and Spider-Man would usually react to it. Even after battles, as they walked and talked and cooled down, Wade would just swing a gun out again and point it at him. If Spidey ever turned around, Wade would play it off as checking over his weapons and ammunition, but Spider-Man hasn't been turning around as much recently. Wade couldn't determine whether it was because he's gotten used to it, or if he stopped registering it altogether. Or if it was something else he was missing.

Like he said, spider-sense was a hard and pesky motherfucker to pin down.

But apparently guns weren't the only thing that tripped it. Through the binoculars, Wade tracked a head of brown hair as it trudged through the Bugle newsroom, carrying a large cup of coffee in one hand (Black, no sugar–because Spider-Man was the true maniac) and donuts in the other. As he walked by a window and Wade zoomed in on him, his behavior shifted just enough to be noticeable. A tightness in his shoulders, a tiny furrow between his brows, and those brown eyes roaming through the office. They flitted outside too, and Wade ducked. He took a few minutes before peeping out again.

Spider-Man was back at his desk, click-clacking away at his important Bugle duties, bored again. But there was still a rigid tightness in his frame.

Wade probably wasn't giving him a very peaceful workday. Or work _week_ , for that matter. It was obvious Spider-Man could blatantly sense that someone was watching him, and if Wade wasn't careful, he was going to be caught red-handed. That wouldn't be a pretty confrontation.

He wished he could say he was _only_ stalking Spider-Man's job, but Wade has followed him to his favorite food vendors too, and the library, and to Midtown High School where he had a part-time job as a science and math tutor–because his boy was so very, very smart. He was also looking for intern work, but it was slow going.

But Wade didn't follow Spider-man home - he refused to. It was different if he was watching him at work. At home, it was too personal and private. Wade would feel more like a piece of scum than he already did. He was more than happy to watch Spider-Man in his natural habitat that _wasn't_ the place he ate, and slept, and probably patched himself up after patrols.

Wade settled back in his position and watched as Spidey scarfed down his donuts, then as he inhaled his coffee, and then the 5 minutes wait before he anxiously trudged back to the breakroom and came back with another donut and a smaller cup of coffee. He ate those quickly as well.

Did the Bugle take food donations? Sending Spidey a box of New York's finest donuts would probably be too suspicious, and it'd blow Wade's cover faster than a teenage boys' first hand-job. Maybe an anonymous gift to the whole Bugle would lessen suspicion? Then again, the Bugle's gotten attacked by more than one crazy coo-coo out for information, so its staff would probably be on edge with any anonymous gifts.

He huffed in frustration. Dammit, if Webs wasn't going to feed himself, then _Odin-on-a-pogo-stick_ , Wade was going to do it _himself_.

Although, he did have a suspicion that Spidey's appetite wasn't just for a lack of food at home (to Wade's knowledge. He's hardly seen the guy go grocery shopping). He ate _all the time_. If there was free food in the vicinity, there was a 95% chance Spider-Man would snuff it out.

At first, Wade thought it was because he was just hungry, but once again, he had a niggling thought that where his boy was concerned, it was a bit more complicated than that.

He consumed SO MUCH. And it was constant. Last night had been one of those lame charity balls rich people did to boost their status, and Spider-Man had gone there as a photographer. He'd set up his base of operations smack dab next to the all-you-can-eat buffet. Everywhere he went, he had food piled on his plate. If anyone cared to notice, they might have realized that Spider-Man ate enough to fill 3 healthy adult men and was still going strong. Wade might've crossed it off as that superhuman metabolism, but alternatively, he's seen him go three days with barely a thing to eat and hardly a sip of water, and he was out jumping around with the energy of a child.

It tickled Wade's brain.

He lowered the binoculars to scratch a few new notes onto the notebook laid out next to him, already full of doodles and observations from the last week.

**\- coffee drinker - black, no sugar or cream**

**-boss is a DOUCHE**

**\- takes pictures of himself for Bugle**

**\- Website manager?**

**\- wipes face and hands a LOT (germaphobe?)**

**\- spider-sense responded to being watched**

**\- spider-sense responded to a lamp pole (germs? Or a secret alien detection device?)**

**\- Probably needs to buy groceries**

**\- Wore the same shirt the last two days–doesn't seem to notice**

He wrote down, " **can consume more than his body weight in food,"** and " **can go several days without any food and water–the fuck?"**

He looked back through the binoculars. Spider-Man registered it immediately, and he must've been getting sick of it, because he got up with a glower and fixed jaw.

 _Welp_ , that was Wade's cue to skedaddle before he's found with his hand in the cookie jar. He grabbed his notebook and let the binoculars dangle from the strap around his neck as he calmly shut the window. He'd go out through the back of the building so Spider-Man didn't see him leave, and he already visited the security room so the video feed of the last few hours was in a loop to wipe his visit from any servers.

He was pushing his way out of the building within 10 minutes. He even had the decency to take all the back routes so people couldn't point and go " _There goes Spider-Man_ " because there was always SOME hair-brained tourist who saw Wade's black-and-red get-up of death and decided that's exactly how Spider-Man would dress.

It was fun the first few times to play Spider-Man, if just to mess with Webs and watch him get fired up, but then people started approaching him about hero things as if he was a Hero For Hire like Luke Cage and Iron Fist.

Granted, Wade _could_ be considered a Hero for Hire. You know, if you squinted and tilted your head a little.

Cage and Fist–Wade snorted–those two didn't normally kill people, but they still took money in exchange for keeping neighborhoods quiet of crime. Or saving kidnapped cats and rescuing kids from trees, or whatever else they did. Wade just took it to a whole new, big-boy level, involving a lot more violence, a lot more blood, and a hell of a lot more cash.

Sure, he hasn't been taking as many jobs as of late. But he was already drowning in money and he was too busy figuring Spider-Man out to focus on taking out some capitalist schmuck with his pants down.

Wade hummed a song as he took out his notebook to review his observations.

He's made some leeway on his spider research–apparently, spiders were weird little fucks. All of them, a bunch of wee little devils with too many legs, too many eyes, and too many secrets.

Ever since that little food exchange, Wade has been reading whatever informational spider pamphlet he can find, and skimming through every national geographic paper, essay, or factoid he's come across on the internet.

Oddly enough, things were making a lot more sense now. Well, at least, the spider rubbing made more sense. Wade was loathed to find that spiders were mostly heartless bastards. Ditching their babies before they're born, mating only when necessary (and usually eating their partner afterward), and living a life of independent isolation. It sounded like _his_ life.

Fuck, is that why Spider-Man is such a loner?

Wade always assumed it was because the guy was awkward as hell and couldn't work with a team larger than three to save his life. But maybe there was a little, spider mind-set playing into it too. He couldn't be sure, he'd need to compare Spidey's hero life to his civilian life to get a grasp of that, which he won't because _boundaries_.

But according to spider rubbing, not all spiders were heartless little devils.

There was a certain type of spider species that rubbed their legs against their parents' or siblings' back/legs to show affection. It was taken as a soothing action too, so they knew they didn't mean any harm. Which was kind of adorable. Wade was going to have to tell Ellie. He liked to think that she would find bizarre and slightly creepy spider facts to be cool.

Reed was right about the piggy-back too. Wolf Spider mammas apparently let their babies ride on their back to keep them safe. Wade didn't know what amused him more, Spidey Jr. seeing Spider-Man as his mamma spider, or Spider-Man accepting the role seamlessly.

It was cute though. Wade liked a family man. If he ever decided to introduce Spider-Man to Ellie, he had a good feeling they'd hit it off.

As for the mysterious talking-into-the-hair thing, Wade had an idea about that too. Upon finding out Spiders didn't have ears (those madlad freaks of nature) he came upon the information that they could feel soundwaves and vibrations. Made sense why Spider-Man could "hear" as long as someone was talking directly at him, and this would be good information to keep in mind next time they can't hear one another.

He still wasn't sure about the food-exchange though. He had an IDEA, but a part of him did not want to get his hopes up by fancying it. So that one was still on the back burner. (Who cares that spiders give little food gifts to the lucky arachnid they want to bone. Spidey probably hadn't meant it that way.)

He's read up on social behaviors in spiders, and there were spider colonies who shared food. It was probably just that. Food sharing because they're pals. The bestest of pals who get on each other's nerves every once in a while. Sexual tension? What's that?

He didn't want to think about the blush on Spider-Man's cheeks. It was probably just hot. The temperature was supposed to be getting higher this next week, and night or not, they did just get done with a fight. It was probably just leftover adrenaline, that's all.

Wade scowled and scribbled around the word "courting gifts", not sure if he wanted to cross it out or not. He settled on jabbing several questions marks at the end of it, almost digging the tip of his pencil through the paper, before snapping the notebook closed.

He wasn't a scientist, and he sure as hell wasn't a spider-human expert. What would he know is going on through Spider-Man's head?

* * *

Spider-Man corners him inside a warehouse on the docks. Wade was inside scoping out a stakeout place for him and Webs, so they could finally get a jump on the human trafficking tip they got from one of Weasel's contacts.

Wade didn't even realize he was being cornered until Spider-Man, quite literally, had him backed up in a corner with one of his hands webbed to the wall.

Wade whistled, tugging on the webs, "Been here for one minute and things are already getting kinky. I take it you have plans to pass the time tonight?"

Spider-Man put up a finger for quiet as if that would actually work.

Wade tugs on the webbing again, "Is this a stronger batch? Just for me? How hardcore do you plan on going? My safe word is Bea Arthur, by the way."

"Just shut up for a second," Spider-Man snapped, planting his hands on his hips in that way he did when he was gearing up for a morality lecture. Wade heaved a sigh, kicking his feet out like a bored kid in a classroom.

"Can't I go to the bathroom first?"

"No, you're going to listen to me _now_ ," the white lenses narrowed into fine-slits, "Have you been stalking the Bugle?"

So, his observations have been noticed. Instead of answering right away, Wade leaned back against the wall and casually slid the knife out of his boot to slice off the webbing.

"I don't know," he said easily, "I mean, _hypothetically_ , if I _were_ stalking the Bugle, how would you know?"

Spider-Man stiffens and Wade almost grins. Just because he wasn't going to snoop out Spider-Man's name, doesn't mean he couldn't tiptoe around the fact that he knows his face. They never brought it up, which was fine. But it was something neither of them could just play off as never happening either. Not forever, at least.

Besides, the more Wade watched the Bugle, the more he wanted to know about Spider-Man. His name, what his room looked like, if he lived in the dump Wade imagined he did. There was this rising ache in his chest whenever he thought about it that he tried to squash down with little success. He wouldn't force him, or pressure, or threaten. But he'd tug on the line, like a fisherman testing to see if he had a bite.

Spider-Man wasn't taking the bait. He stepped back, crossing his arms smoothly, and playing as if he had no idea what Wade was talking about. But Wade could see that tightness lingering in his shoulders.

"I have a friend who works there," he answered with a noncommittal shrug, "Said someone's been watching the building."

"And how would your friend know it's me?"

"He's a photographer, Pool. He has an eye for these things and a Tamron 400mm lens to prove it. Now, why are you stalking the Bugle?"

Wade casually brushed off his pants. "Do you have picture proof it was me? I'm innocent until proven guilty, you know."

Spider-Man's patience is wearing thin. His fingers dig into his own hips because wrapping them around Wade's throat would be too much for his superhero conscience. Also, Wade's positive Spider-Man's never had to hide a body before.

"I don't exactly have pockets to store photos in, Deadpool."

"Ooh, _Deadpool_. Using our full names. You must be really ticked."

"Answer the question."

"I would like to talk to my lawyer first. Do you have Daredevil on speed dial?"

"Deadpool, I _swear_ –" he cut off abruptly, head snapping to the side as his lenses narrowed, "Wait…someone's here."

Wade pulled out his gun, and just to soothe Spidey's hurt feelings, he drew his katana as well, so he knew Wade wasn't going to just headshot their guest and call it a day. Craning his neck and listening closely, he could make out the crunch of tires rolling on gravel, the sliding thud of a van door opening and closing, and several footsteps approaching the building.

"They're sending someone in to check the building, come on."

Wade nods and slides next to Spider-Man, one foot going into the man's knitted hands so he can be thrown up to the rafters. The throw is seamless and strong, and all Wade has to do his step out onto the rafter and grab a beam for support. Spider-Man is crouched next to him in a second, and they both peer from the shadows as the doors to the warehouse creak open.

A small group of people enters the building, 10 in total. Wade singles out 6 as your common foot soldier, 2 large muscled types for intimidation and extra horsepower, and another 2 as the two head honchos. They spread throughout the building, the foot soldiers checking for any unwanted guests as the hired muscled stood next to the two dinguses leading this foray.

"Ooh, is this a mysterious boss battle?" Wade whispered, "Are we in a side quest, Webs?"

"Maybe if this were a _videogame_ ," Spider-Man shrugged, "But we're not, and something shady is _definitely_ going on here."

"Hmm, did you spider-sense tell you that?"

A glower, "I will push you off this rafter."

"What, and risk busting up this shady little meet-up? That's not very heroic of you, Spider-Man."

For a second Wade thought he really was going to shove him off. Somewhere deep in his pit of patience he drags out another few seconds and blows out a rough breath, "Why do I put up with you?" He didn't give Wade the opportunity to answer before clapping a hand over his mouth. His eyes narrowed a second later. "Did…did you just try to _lick_ my hand?"

Wade shrugged, "Guess you couldn't really feel it through the mask?"

"Don't be gross."

He ignores Wade's reply and goes back to watching the newcomers. There's nothing that really stands out in the group. The two hired muscles look like twins, one man, one woman, both with biceps bigger than Wade's head. The foot soldiers all wear generic outfits that dock workers wear, meaning they planned on going incognito tonight. The head honchos are normal looking enough. All that stands out is that one is wearing a blue jacket too big for him and the other has long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail.

Ponytail and Jacket talk in hushed whispers, neither of them looking quite at ease with their location despite how they tried their hardest to blend in. All Wade can hear was a low mumbled exchange, but nothing discernable.

"What are they saying?"

"They're talking about a package," Spider-Man whispers, "They uh - they're talking about some busted drug exchange a few weeks ago. I think it's the one _WE_ busted."

"Huh, no kidding?"

"Yeah," Spider-Man paused to listen again, "It sounds like that was a test-run for something. They were seeing how well an anonymous meet-up would go," he turned to Wade after another few minutes, "I think this is a drug drop. Or an exchange."

"One-Hundred percent bonafide agreement from me, Spidey-Babe. They don't have a lot of numbers, but they're packing heat," Wade nodded toward their weaponry, "That is some grade-A shit. Some it from the black market, even. That package of theirs has got to be a BIG one." he snickered at his own innuendo.

"Why did they bring such little numbers if it's so important?"

Wade shrugged, "They didn't want to get a lot of attention. A group any bigger and it might've put word on the street. Small drug exchanges like these go unnoticed more often–"

"–but they're easy to break up if you can get to them," Spider-Man finishes, nodding. "Well, I guess it's up to us to put the kiddies in time-out then."

Wade cocked his gun, "Give them a solid spanking or two for being naughty."

"Must you always?"

"Hey, if you took that wrong, it's on _you_ , not me."

Wade was almost certain Spider-Man rolled his eyes, but there was amusement in his voice, "I'll cut off their exit."

"And I'll give our little party guests a visit in, how long do you need? 5 minutes?"

"Just 3."

"3 minutes," Wade pulled out another gun and checked the magazine.

"No killing," Spider-Man added over his shoulder as he began to climb. "If they're trying to go under the radar, there's gotta be a reason. We need them alive in case we can get anything else from them."

"How dare you make sense instead of just being incredibly naive and wet-eyed for all human life? Not very in-character for you, Webs."

Spider-Man flicked the back of his head once before disappearing into the rafters.

Wade counted down the minutes in his head, taking stock of all the shooters and their locations. The moment they saw him, the foot soldiers were probably going to engage so the big bosses could clear the area safely. The hired muscle would probably stick with them to keep them safe. There probably wasn't any harm in shooting a few lackeys in the head, as long as they got the Ponytail and Jacket, but Wade assumed Spider-Man would be pissed if he did.

The lackeys _could_ give away just as much information if they were scared enough, he supposed. So, there would be no headshots today.

Wade's brain hit the 3-minute mark and he pulled himself into a crouched position. He took a second to stretch his neck and shoulders, loosening any building tensions.

"Alright, y'all know the drill, _maximum effort_ ," and with a loud, " _AIIE-AIIIII-AIEEE!_ " he leaped from the rafters, landing on one of the large crates stacked beneath, and punctuated it with a backflip as he landed on the ground in the classic superhero pose.

"Heeeeey," he sang, sliding one of his swords from its scabbard, "Not to be so forthcoming, but could you all do me the favor of putting all your attention on me for a sec? My ex hasn't been returning my calls and I've just been so _needy_ lately."

The reaction was as expected. A whole lot of guns and expletives pointed in his directions. Then again, Wade's never felt more calm than when someone had a gun pointed at him.

He shot the closest lackey in the kneecap, "Ah, thank you! I already feel so much better."

And the floodgates were open. Wade rolled to the side and came back up low and hunched as he shot two more of them, one in the shoulder and another in the leg, before they all had the good sense to find some cover. As expected, the two head honchos immediately tore for the door with the hired muscle on their heels, but they're escape was stopped short as Spider-Man landed in front of them, hands out apologetically.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, did you want to escape through that door?" he blocked it off with several large sheets of webbing, "Sorry, but it seems to have been inexplicably blocked off, but if you'll be so kind as to drop your weapons and come with me, I'm sure I can find you a nice cop car to sit in."

He easily dodged the shots aimed for his head, "No? I guess if you _want_ to do it the hard way..."

With the gunfire coming down more heavily, Wade perched himself behind a crate as he traded shots. The ones he already hit were either sobbing on the ground, reaching for their fallen weapon, or trying to crawl to safety.

He shot the hand of a goon who managed to pick her gun back up, "Geez. You never had this problem with corpses."

He skirted around his crate, firing in the direction of the heads peeking from behind crates and trying his damn hardest not to just cap a bullet between each pair of eyes. Being a good guy who never killed was so _hard._ How did Spidey do it all the time? How was he even ALIVE?

"You are SO lucky I already promised not to kill any of you," Wade said as he dropped behind two people hunched behind a crate and hit them over the head with his gun. "Look at me, just oozing superhero appeal. When do you think the Avengers will hit up my DMs? I'd look _great_ standing next to Captain America."

"Believe me, you don't want to be an Avenger. Do you _know_ how many debriefings you'd have to sit through?" Spider-Man called from where he was wrestling and evading hits from the two hired muscles.

"Hey, are you _eavesdropping_ on my fight? As a superhero, I thought you'd have more manners. And you're just saying that because the Avengers declined your request to their clubhouse."

"Hey, that's NOT true… for the most part. I happen to be a bonafide lone-wolf."

"Isn't that just code for sad and lonely?"

" _I didn't ask to be called out today_."

"Then don't eavesdrop on someone else's fight."

Their across-the-room conversation was interrupted as Spider-Man landed a hit to the torso of one of the hired muscles and he went sailing back into the crates. The other gained ground on him though and Wade could tell by the way Spider-Man stiffened and whirled around to push off her attack, that his spider-sense had gone higher.

Which told him all he needed to know.

If the hired help could solely set off Spider-Man's spider-sense in the middle of a gunfight, then that person was probably someone to keep an eye on. Wade's come to trust that danger-sense in a fight just as much Spider-Man did.

Most of the group was already taken care of, so Wade swung himself over the top of the crate, gun pointed for the women's legs to take her done. Just as he pulled the trigger, someone large barreled into him and the shot missed her by a hair. Her other half, the one thrown into the crates, had his large meaty hands around Wade's throat and was _squeezing_.

Wade knew super strength when it grabbed him by the windpipe and tried to pop his head off, and this person was definitely not your run-of-the-mill henchman. He pressed the tip of his gun into the man's arm just as Wade felt his throat begin to collapse in on itself, and an explosion of blood, bone, and flesh erupted between them.

The man let go with a shriek and Wade stumbled back, one hand on his throat and the other aiming the gun at his head now.

"Motherfucking sonova-" he rasped, jabbing the tip of his gun into the man's head as if to make up for the bullet he wanted to put between his eyes, as the man sobbed over his mangled arm, "You are - _cough cough-_ you are so lucky I'm trying to get on Webs' nice list."

So, while they did have super strength, these two weren't trained in anything other than ' _punch until they stop moving'_ or ' _stand really big and look intimidating'_ which went well with Wade's ' _shoot them once and watch them cry'_ technique. Still, dying after getting your throat crushed in was better than getting your throat crushed in and being awake as it mended. He rubbed at his neck as the bones regrew and aligned and his spine mended.

Spider-Man was fending off the women easy enough. She looked like she had a bit more tact in her than her brother and had managed to grab Webs by his arms and was trying to muscle him onto the floor. One of the goons Wade had got in the arm had managed to snag his gun and was helping Ponytail back to his feet.

He aimed his gun at Spidey's back as Ponytail pulled something from his coat pocket. Wade shot the goon in the knee, then shot the hand holding the gun for good measure, but wasn't fast enough to stop Ponytail from lunging forward and desperately plunging something into Spider-Man's neck.

Spider-Man's cry of pain had Wade jolting forward, one hand curling around the shaft of his katana and the other aiming the gun. He shot the Ponytail in the shoulder, then the leg, as Spider-Man overpowered the woman and knocked her unconscious with a clean hit to her temple. Wade still had his katana out, poised and ready to chop hands and cut off ankles, as he stopped next to his partner.

"Hey. _Hey_ , you okay?"

Spider-Man curled his hand around the injured spot and he yanked the syringe from his skin. It looked like the one junkies used, but the liquid inside it was almost gone. A jolt of panic had Wade spinning Spider-Man around to look at him.

"Hey, how do you feel? Is anything freakish happening to your body?"

"No more than usual," Spider-Man grunted, still rubbing the spot. His head cocked to the side, "I…I'm feeling kind of hot? And…and maybe a little dizzy? But that might just be because Crazy Lady over here hit me in the head."

Wade was half listening as he marched over to Ponytail and hauled him up by the collar of his shirt, "Okay, Ponytail, you're gonna tell me what you just injected into my pal over there or I'm gonna start taking all those little piggies on your hands and feet and sell them to the black market."

"Hey, _hey,_ man," Ponytail trembled, whimpering with each jostle to his newly minted injuries, "It-it was nothing. Just a shot of the acid, that's all! I swear!"

"You injected me with _acid!"_ Spider-Man screeched.

Wade pulled out his knife.

"Wait, wait-" Ponytail screamed, "Not-not real acid. Y-you know? Like blotter. The dots. It's not real acid, I swear to ya on my old momma's grave!"

Wade mulled that over in his head, before dropping Ponytail like a sack of potatoes, "I think he's talking about an LSD. It's a drug. Tried it a couple times back in the day, and _whoo_ _boy_. Could put you through a real bad trip if you weren't careful."

Spider-Man was looking between the goon and Wade, hand still clamped on his neck, "Then why'd he call it acid?"

"Oh, LSD goes by a BUNCH of names, Boo. Acid, Blotter, Dots, Looney Toons, Pane, Purple Heart, Zen, Hippie, Golden Dragon, Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds; I could go on."

Spider-Man lifted a hand, "No, I get it. Please _don't_." He rubbed at his neck roughly one more time before dropping his hand, "Drugs don't work on me that often, and if they do they don't last long. But…but any idea what's gonna happen to me? If it _does_ do something?"

Wade chuckled and swung an arm over Spider-Man shoulder, "Look at you! So cute that you've never done drugs before. Do you even know where to go to get a drug?"

"Yeah, _Walgreens_ ," Spider-Man snipped, and shrugged off his arm, "Just because I don't snort cocaine, doesn't mean I don't know where to go to _get one_. I have the option, Pool, I've busted enough drug cartels and exchanges to figure it out. "

"Alright, boy scout. The dose looked like a lot, but because you're jacked up on spider steroids, you probably won't have a bad trip. There's the normal euphoria, all the pleasant happy tingles, might get a bit of fun reality warping. You ever wondered what the color yellow tasted like? You know, I'm almost jealous. Drugs don't work on me anymore. Old me would be seething in jealousy right now."

"Whoop-de-doo for me," Spider-Man deadpanned as he crouched next to Ponytail–who had fallen unconscious–to rifle through his jacket.

Wade laughed and fished for his phone in his pouches, "Alright Webs, I'll call the coppers and we can blow this joint; Then we can get something to eat and I can watch you experience the wonders and horrors of drugs like the bad influence I am. And I'll have you know, it took all my willpower not to make a blow-job joke."

"Yeah, I was kind of expecting one, to be honest," Spider-Man mumbled. He pulled something out of Ponytail's jacket and sat back on his haunches, "Well what do we have here?" He was holding a small package, wrapped tight and neat in plastic and bubble wrap.

Wade peered over his shoulder curiously as Spider-Man began unwrapping it.

"You know, I'm pretty sure you're tampering with evidence."

"This isn't a crime scene yet," was his answer, "Besides, they went through all the trouble of trying to stay under the radar, aren't you a little curious as to why?"

Wade shrugged, "I mean, as far as mysteries go this isn't a riveting game of Clue. But eh, I'm always down for a little misdemeanor and felony."

Spider finished unwrapping the package and held up a vial. Inside it held a near-colorless liquid, resembling the drug that had been injected into him, but on the side in black marker it had been labeled " **Dorothy."**

Spider-Man twisted it around in his fingers, "Do LSD's go by Dorothy too?"

Wade shook his head, crouching down to get a better look at it, "Not that I remember," he took the vial with a hum, "Hey, want to see what it does?"

Spider-Man snatched it back, "You are NOT drinking this."

"Aw come on, it's for science!"

"Science isn't about just ingesting any chemical compound you come across and seeing what happens."

"Tell that to almost every person in the superhuman community, Webs. Half of _your_ rogues are experiments gone wrong."

Spider-Man huffed, "Alright, that's not what science is _supposed_ to be about. Come on," he stood up, "Whatever this is, they were trying their hardest not to get caught. I have a bad feeling about it. I'm going to drop it off to Tony and see what he can make of it."

"Why? You getting the bad tingles?"

Spider-Man shot him a look. "I– what…," he sighed, " _Yes_ , I'm getting the bad tingles."

"Uh-huh," Wade planted his hands on his hips, "And this isn't because you want to poke at it yourself, and play scientist, right?"

"No!... _maybe._ Look, I'll give it to Tony after I take a look, alright?"

Wade snorted and brought his phone up to his ear, "Yeah, yeah you Brainiac. I'm calling the cops on our friends here, you wanna take down your little web display?" he gestured toward the blocked off doors. "Unless you don't want to. I mean, we could _stick_ around and watch New York's Finest try to tear through it."

"That was a terrible joke," He held his hand out, "I'll take it down, but I don't have enough web solvent for all of it."

He tossed Spider-Man a small knife, which he caught, and got to work cutting down the webs as Wade dialed the police.

* * *

They were only 10 minutes away before Spider-Man started acting weird.

Wade wasn't _too_ concerned with the drug. As Spider-Man's said, drugs didn't affect him very much, and it probably wouldn't last very long anyway. If he were any other person, Wade would be dropping him off at the nearest hospital, or taking him home, or somewhere safe, where he could ride down the high without falling into a bad trip.

But Spider-Man was simply swinging through the city with a LOT more enthusiasm than normal, taking his time with loops and flips as he lazily followed Deadpool's trek across rooftops. Wade doubted he even knew where he was going. He was a little worried about him swinging while drugged out, but Spider-Man's spider-sense still looked to be working right and he didn't seem in danger of plummeting to his death.

Still, Wade was going to keep a particularly good eye on him just in case. He joked and teased about Spider-Man never doing drugs, but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned for the hero's well-being.

He jumped across another building as Spider-Man did a series of fluid swoops and dives, his laughter echoing off the tall buildings where only they were high enough to hear it. Wade watched him fondly as he jogged across the rooftops and jumped onto the conjoining building. The buildings were going to start getting taller and it was going to take longer to scale them.

Spider-Man thoughts might've been racing along those same tracks too, cause as Wade jumped to another building, he felt an arm wrap around his middle, and suddenly he was being lifted into the sky.

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" He flailed, turning enough to latch onto Spider-Man's frame so he didn't become cement paste, "Warn a guy next time!"

Spider-Man giggled an apology next to his ear and Wade decided that he already forgave him.

He swung them up to a taller building before dropping Wade and himself onto its top. As Wade collected himself and made a count for all his weaponry, Spider-Man stretched long and hard, a pleased sound coming from his throat as he bent completely backward, popping his back. Wade tried not to stare, but holy hell, sometimes he forgot how _bendy_ Spider-Man was.

Spider-Man didn't return from his stretch and instead flipped backward so he was laying on his back and staring at the sky. Wade grinned and knelt next to him, poking the middle of his head.

"Hey? You still flying high?"

"I can see flowers in the sky."

"I'll take that as a yes then."

Spider-Man hummed and took a deep breath of air. He didn't even choke on the smell. He was probably zenning out more than Iron Fist. Wade's poking became more of a gentle rub on his head and Spider-Man eye lenses narrowed in pleasure.

"You know, we aren't so different," he murmured.

Wade cocked his head to the side, "Us? You talking to me or the sky flowers?"

Spider-Man laughed and lay his hand on top of Wade's, pinning it to his own head, "I'm talking about us. We're not that different."

"I know I say a lot of stupid stuff that gets lost on people, and if you think you're like me, then you must _really_ hate yourself, but why do you think so? Asking for a friend."

"Because we're both just….trying to do better, you know? We both are doing what we can to make the world better, and sometimes we mess up, but we try. Our methods may not always be the best, but when it comes to protecting people who need to be protected, we do what we can to keep people safe. And I think that makes you a hero in your own right, you know? We're not so different."

Wade stared at him for a long minute before slowly raising his phone. "Please repeat that directly into the camera."

Spider-Man giggled and let go of his hand in favor of sitting up. He stretched his arms again before hooking his hands under the hem of his shirt and lifting it over his head. Wade was on his feet before he could even lower his arms and had put a solid 8 feet of distance between them.

"Uh…Spidey? Whatcha doing?"

Now shirtless, Spider-Man tossed his spandex top to the side and shot him a glance as he adjusted his web-shooters. He shrugged, "It was getting hot."

"Ah, yes. The ol' it's getting hot and I'm just going to strip in front of Deadpool play. I'd like it under normal circumstances, but you aren't exactly right in the head right now."

Spider-Man didn't respond to that and instead set to working weaving strands of webbing from his web-shooters and jumping between their building and the one directly across from them. Wade slowly loosened up again and crept to the ledge to watch him work. He's seen Spider-Man construct plenty of webs for many different applications. Cocooning guys and hanging them upside down for the police to find, a simple web to throw civilians on to catch their falls, even the occasional hammock to rest in. But none of them were quite like this.

For one, this web was constructed strand by strand instead of shooting a glob and letting it expand into a pre-made web. He set up the foundations and worked his way in, weaving them in and out in an intricate design that sparkled in the lights far below.

His skin was shining too. It must've been _really_ hot if he was sweating that much, or the drug was reacting to him in that way.

Only, as Spider-Man secured a strand not too far from where Wade was standing, he squinted and looked closer. The sheen on Spider-Man's skin was less like sweat and more like…oil?

When he got close, Wade swiped his fingers over Spider-Man's arm, barely earning a glance from the other man, and examined the residue on his gloves. He wasn't a sweat expert but that definitely looked like oil. Which was…weird.

Wade itched to have his notebook on him to write that down. If he didn't jot it down he might forget to look it up on Wiki later.

Did Spider-Man secrete oil all the time or was it just an occasional thing? It'd explain why he was always washing his hands and face.

10 minutes later Spider-Man was putting the last strand in place before climbing to the web's center and easing himself down, laying with his hands behind his head and looking at the sky. Wade watched him for a little while longer before reaching over and plucking one of the strands. He followed the vibration with his eyes and immediately Spider-Man was crouching again and looking toward him.

"Hey?" He sounded half offended and half annoyed, "What was that for?"

Wade shrugged, "I just want to see what happened," he tried to pry his finger away, but it took a lot of heaving as it slowly came off, dragging thin silicone strands with it. Spider-man was by his side in an instant.

"Stop it, you're ruining it!"

"Sorry, I didn't realize you were using your _extra_ sticky batch."

Spider-Man _humphed_ as he mended the strands, not even sticking to them a little despite the contact, before slowly easing back to make sure everything was back in place. When it was deemed fit, he crawled back to the center and lay down. Wade put his chin in his hands.

"What are you planning to catch up here? You do know the pigeons don't normally fly this high. You might get an Iron Man if you're lucky."

"M'not trying to catch anything," Spider-Man said with a shrug, "Just…want to relax."

"What about me?"

"What about you?"

"Can I join you?"

"No! You'll ruin it!"

"Aw, come on Webs! I'm all lonely and webless over here. Give a pal a hand!"

Instead of showing him mercy, he threw something at him. Wade caught the slim bracelet-like contraptions of Spider-Man's web-shooters with wide wondrous eyes.

"Make one yourself."

" _Ohhhh_ , you must be high off your _shit_ if you're willingly giving me your web shooters."

"You don't get to _keep_ them, just make your own and stop whining."

Wade clipped them onto his wrists and gave a few experimental _thwips_. They were a little snug, but kind of comfortable too. He couldn't go swooping and swinging around like Spider-Man could. He didn't have the super-strength for that, and it just _looked_ exhausting. But he could swing to and from the buildings, setting up his own foundations in a poor mimic to Spider-Man's.

When he was done his web wasn't very impressive, especially compared to Spider-Man's, but it was at least usable. He jumped and landed in the center.

"Mines higher than _yours_ ," he sang childishly, but when he twisted to see Spider-Man's reaction he realized his mistake.

"Uh…Webs," Wade twisted, unable to move, " _Fuck,_ wait, I think I'm stuck."

Spider-Man burst out laughing behind him, "Didn't you change the cartridges?"

"No! I thought you did?"

Wade squirmed and flailed but he was stuck tight. Oh, to be a helpless fly stuck in the spider's web. And not even in a fun way. Wade couldn't even look at Spider-Man, all he could do was stare up at the sky and imagine the flowers Spider-Man had been seeing. He sank in a defeated huff.

"So…how long does this take to evaporate."

"An hour."

Wade made a noise of pain, "I don't want to be stuck up here!"

"If you ask nicely, I might cut you loose."

"The Bugle is right about you; you truly are a menace!"

"The one and only!"

Wade wondered if he could reach the knife on his thigh with minimal bone breakage when he felt a vibration crawl through the strands of his web. He stiffened. Felt another one. Craning his neck, he twisted to the point of straining a muscle to look over where Spider-Man had eased closer and was lying just under the edge of Wade's web. His arm was up, and he was deftly picking at the different strands. Once again, unlike Wade, his finger didn't get stuck, and Wade wondered if it had something to do with his oily sweat.

Another vibration thrummed up the web and Wade shivered. Suddenly, everything felt still. Like New York was holding its breath.

A fact Wade had stumbled upon in his spider research rose to the top of his brain and his breathing hitched.

Spider-Man plucked another strand and sent a wave of vibrations up to Wade. It occurred to him that he was vibrating the web _just so._ So that the vibrations hit Wade every time, instead spanning over the entire web.

So high above everyone else, from the clamor of the city, it felt like it was just them. Alone in the moment.

Wade watched the steady rise and fall of Spider-Man's chest. Sometime earlier, Spidey had lifted his mask to his nose and Wade watched the way his lips parted as he breathed, as he played a tune of vibrations that didn't make sense to Wade's non-spider brain. There was something serene about the act. Almost intimate.

It made Wade's chest seize and it was suddenly harder to breathe.

Then Spider-Man fumbled. He plucked the wrong strand and the vibrations didn't hit Wade. It was a simple enough mistake, but Spider-Man froze, his breathing stopping entirely as his hand went motionless in the air. It was silent for a beat.

Then a red flush washed over Spider-Man's exposed cheeks and ran down his neck. He yanked his mask down and was off the web before Wade could even register what was happening.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ , Webs! Wait!" He squirmed in his make-shift prison, reaching for his knife.

"S-sorry Wade, I…I just-" he sounded flustered. Almost embarrassed if Wade was hearing correctly. "I've got to go."

"No! Wait, Spidey! The drug hasn't worn off yet, you might put yourself in a bad trip if you leave now! Dammit, just give me a second," Wade reached his knife and was cutting at the strands, but by the time he could turn around, Spider-Man was already long gone.

He searched the empty rooftops for a clue to the direction he'd taken, but there was none.

" _Fuck._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aye! Welcome back! Here are your spider facts for this chapter:
> 
> 1) Spiders are insatiable. They are eating constantly. Literally, their entire lives are made up of mostly just eating and hunting for their next meal, with the breaks in between to reproduce. But, while they can just eat and eat and eat, they can also go days without eating anything at all. So our boy Peter has grown into their habits. If there is food he's allowed to eat in the area, he is a bottomless pit and will eat as long as people will allow, and given his crazy, financially unstable lifestyle, he can also go days without eating and not even notice it.
> 
> 2) Drugs can affect the way spiders spin their webs. On LSD drugs, spiders create beautiful intricate webs. On the other hand, if they're on caffeine, their webs are more terrible and sloppy. So, with Peter juiced up on the Acid, he creates himself a large beautiful web to rest in.
> 
> 3) Spider bodies create a special type of oil substance that prevents them from sticking to their own webs. Peter secretes his oil all the time, so he has to wipe his hands and face off all the time so people don't notice.
> 
> 4) Some male spiders play of series of vibrations on a female web as part of a courting ritual. However, if they play one note off, he'll be mistaken as a struggling fly and she'll attack and eat him. For Peter, it's a mesh of his human and spider side. He plays the vibrations as the usual flirting/courting, but if he makes a mistake, its not the spider fear of getting eaten, its the human fear of rejection. Like he's not good enough, which is why Peter was so embarrassed after making his mistakes, and why he flees the scene immediately after. It's the equivalent of going up to your crush in High School but stumbling over your words and making a fool of yourself in front of the entire student body.
> 
> Thanks for reading! See you next chapter!


	3. Cracks in the Foundation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter chewed me up, spit me out, stole my dog, committed tax-fraud in my name, and ran me over with a cement truck.

It continues to amaze Wade just how close he is to constantly ruining everything. And this time he can't even pin it on drugs, or the voices, or even manipulation, because it's of his own volition.

There's a line he isn't supposed to cross. A very thin, very fragile line, probably drawn with children's' chalk, that he keeps to one side of at all times. He promised himself he wouldn't cross it without the full approval of the person on the other side.

And here he is, pacing on a roof, pulling at hair he doesn't even have because he is _this_ fucking close to crossing that line and breaking into the Daily Bugle to embezzle Spider-Man's address from their employee records.

He'd cut himself free from the spider-web death trap, almost falling 700ft and barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the building, and was now toying the line between friendship and utter betrayal of trust. Wade supposes he already breached the _'utter betrayal of trust'_ part when he'd started (lightly) stalking Spider-Man, but this one takes it to a whole new level.

Fuck, he wants to shoot something. There's nothing quite as relaxing as pulling the trigger of a gun and watching it go _BLAM_ in a rapist's face. But there's nothing to shoot except the building or himself, so he alternates between wringing his hands and compulsively checking his weapons.

 _This is very bad_ , the unhelpful little voice in his head reminds him. _A no good, very fucked up situation you'd found yourself in Wilson. You never cease to amaze us._

Somewhere out there, swinging from buildings and probably colliding into billboards, is a Spider-Man high off his rocker and who is probably spiraling into a very unpleasant trip. Wade's done LSD drugs before—way back when he was pretty and they actually worked on him—so he knows what it's like to go into a bad trip. You can hallucinate some messed up crap and you don't even need to get tortured or traumatized to do it. It can sabotage your emotions and make you feel paranoid of something that's not even there just as much as it could give you that warm floaty feeling, like your sippin' on sunshine. He hadn't been lying about tasting the color yellow.

Even through the splotchy, swiss-cheese peppered holes in his memory, he can still faintly recall what his own bad drug experiences were like and it wasn't rainbows, unicorns, and butterflies

"You were supposed to be watching him," Wade snipes at himself, digging his hands into the building edge, "You were supposed to be making sure he was okay. Not letting him run off to fist-fight a bench with Doc Ock's face on it."

It doesn't help that Spider-Man was freaking out when he left. It only cemented it in Wade's mind that the hero was spiraling into terror and paranoia, while here he was fretting like a little old nursemaid.

Wade can feel himself spiraling just thinking about it.

Knowing Spider-Man, he's probably going home. Somewhere nice and familiar and safe. But Wade can't just dig up his home address. That's crossing the line. _That_ went against all those neat little boundaries he is very careful not to knock over. He already feels (sort-of) bad about watching Spider-Man at work, he'll feel like an absolute scumbag if he starts watching his house too. Because it isn't normal to spy on your best pals, according to Wolverine and Cable.

Wade's stomach rolls just at the idea of risking the friendship he has with Spider-Man. It had taken a lot of time and effort to get them to this point; the slow up-hill climb from _I-hate-you_ and _I-can-barely-tolerate-you_ to _partners-in-crime-fighting_ and _weekly-fast-food-takeout-nights_. At least with the _stalking-his-job-thing,_ there was a high chance Spider-Man would forgive him, give or take a few weeks. But this? It'll be something entirely different.

Buuuut, people who experience a drug trip, especially if it's their first time, can seriously hurt themselves _and_ others. Factor in some spider powers and there is a hell of a lot of damage that Spider-Man can do if he starts lashing out, and he would never forgive himself if he hurt an innocent bystander.

Wade throws his hands in the air, "Fuck it!".

He's reaching for the maintenance door when he notices the silver cuff still locked around his wrist. The web-shooter Spider-Man had lent him. Wade whoops as he sprints back to the building ledge. Web-slinging in itself is exhausting, and if you aren't careful, you can tear a muscle and pull your arm out of place, but it'll help him cover a lot more ground in less than if he was on his own two feet. Besides, he has a healing factor, so ripped tendons and dislocated arms weren't going to be a problem.

He takes a second or two to stretch his muscles as he adjusts the webshooter. He's never really used one before, unless you counted that one comic issue, but he's seen Spider-man do it a million times. How hard can it be?

He shoots a web and it misses his mark by a good dozen or so feet. The web-line drifts meaninglessly in the air like a slow-falling worm. He shakes the useless line off and aims again, adjusting where he needs to, and shoots.

It latches onto the building and he whoops again.

"I'm coming Webs," he shouts and jumps...

...and promptly crashes into a wall 5 seconds later. And then falls about 100 feet before he manages to shoot another webline and stop his descent. His arm jerks and pops loudly, a very strong indicator that he dislocated it. As to be expected.

"Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans, grabbing the webline with his good hand and planting his feet on the side of the building to scale up it. He probably looked like a lost mountain-climber sorely confused with his terrain. "At least my neck didn't snap."

He resets his arm as soon as he makes it to the roof and shakes it a few times to make sure it's good to go.

Okay, so he is going to need a lot more practice, web-slinging isn't as easy as Spider-Man made it look. But he can figure this out. It was all in the body, right? Twist the back, point with the hips, show off the booty—Spider-Man 101. He can do this.

He steps onto the ledge and aims again, "Alright, take two,"

* * *

For once in his life, Wade isn't batting zero with Lady Luck.

Being weapon-savant, Wade quickly gets the hang of the web-shooter and is swinging like the world's craziest Tarzan in no time, albeit it a lot less gracefully and unimpressive compared to the man that normally did this. Spider-Man can claim his little gadgets are "tools" not weapons, but Wade knows a weapon when it crosses his grabby hands. Oh, the things Web-head could do with these if he wasn't so anti-killing.

But that's not even the luckiest part of his night. He isn't even halfway to the Bugle when he has to pause after a particularly rough landing that almost results in a broken ankle when a shriek catches his attention.

This is New York, so he's not particularly concerned until the shriek turns into more shrieks and his curiosity gets the better of him.

"What now," Wade snaps, dropping onto the fire escape and peering into the slim alleyway below.

The culprit is a homeless woman. She's pressed up against a wall, grunting and screaming as she struggles against something Wade can't quite make out. Upon closer inspection, he picks up on the splotches of white goop that is gluing her entire left side to the wall.

"Ohhhh _shit_ ," he breathes and scales his way down the fire escape with the speed and finesse that would make an amateur parkour-ist proud and lands on the ground with a loud thud. The woman is flailing, her screams coming and going, as she pulls but the webs cocooning her are made to hold villains a lot stronger than her thin frame can provide. She's lucky none of the webbing had gotten on her face.

"Shhhh," he shushes when she notices him approaching, and slowly pulls out a knife. She screams louder. And _yeah_ , he should've known better than pulling a weapon on someone scared shitless. He lurches forward and presses his hand to her mouth, cutting her off.

"Easy," he whispers, "I'm not going to hurt you, but I do need you to be an itsy bit more quiet. And by itsy bit, I mean stop making noise at all. _Got it_?" She nods, "Great! And your prize," he slices at the webbing around her, "a free detangling from the goopy goo you're stuck in. There we go. Now, speaking of the aforementioned itsy bitsy, you wouldn't happen to have seen a red and blue superhero around here somewhere? About _yay-heigh,_ goes by Spider-Man? Tight spandex, great ass, and probably higher than a rocket?"

Her eyes flicker to the half-open dumpster pushed against the opposite wall.

"Awesome! Thanks for the help. You can go now," he steps away and she hot-foots it out of there at record speeds. Probably for her own good.

Overflowing garbage bags surround the dumpster, some spilling rotting garbage, and black juices onto the cement. Wade approaches cautiously and when he's close enough, peers slowly over the top as to not startle the person within. Inside, Spider-Man is hunched over himself, legs pinned to his chest, and breathing so heavy it resembles that of a panting dog. One arm is wrapped around his legs and the other has the heel of his hand pressed tight against his eyes. He's half whimpering and half muttering to himself. The words so jumbled and woven together it's hard to decipher what's being said. Judging by the tone, Wade can guess that the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man is not feeling too friendly.

"Hey," Wade whispers, and that alone is enough to send Spider-Man jerking backward and hitting the back of the dumpster with a painful _CLANG_ that makes Wade wince.

Both of his hands shoot up, but only one of them succeeds in shooting webs. Wade dodges it easily and taps down on the years of military and merc trained habit that makes his fingers twitch to retaliate. But he doesn't, because that would be bad. Trying to pin Spider-Man down in this state is going to do more harm than good and it would probably end with Wade getting glued to the wall with several broken bones.

Instead, he waits until Spider-Man lowers his hand in favor of pressing them to his face again, and very slowly he climbs inside, taking great care not to startle his friend as the bags crinkle under his weight.

"Hey, it's okay. It's _okay_. It's me, Wade. I know you're probably off the fritz right now, Webs, but you're gonna be fine. The drugs' still affecting you, that's why everything is going coo-coo crazy. But you're going to be fine, I swear. It'll wear off. You've just got to calm down and listen to me."

Spider-Man's breathing doesn't lighten and the tension stays trapped inside his body like a caged animal preparing to bite at any hand that gets close. Still, his head jerks to the side as he absorbs Wade's words.

"Wade?" he says it like he's not quite sure it's him.

"Yeah, it's me, Wade," he holds his hands out placatively. "Your buddy Deadpool. The Merc with a Mouth and a Killer Ass to match, but they usually keep that last bit out because it's too long and clunky. You remember me, right?"

"I…I don't know-" Spider-Man trembles harder.

"It's okay, you don't have to right away. I know this drug is probably wreaking hell on your perception. That's okay. It'll wear off, I promise. Cross my heart and pray to die. But until then, and I know you're not going to like this, but we need to get you out of here."

Spider-Man doesn't seem to hear him, or maybe the words just aren't registering, but he looks like he doesn't intend on letting the dumpster go any time soon. But Wade counts it as a win when he allows him to scoot closer.

Spider-Man makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat and Wade's heart aches in kind, like someone had pinched the organ between two fingers and is squeezing it like a pimple ready for popping. It's distressing to see him in this state. Wade rarely gets to see these small moments of weakness. Spider-Man simply never allowed it. On the occasions that he didn't limp home to lick his wounds, and sat still long enough for Wade to attempt some level of medical treatment, he barely utters a word much less a noise of pain. The guy had the tolerance of, well, a superhero, but on a whole new level. It would be freaky if it wasn't awesome.

So, yeah, never in the year or so that he and the web-slinger have been partners, has Wade heard him make a noise like that. And it was concerning.

His mind jumps back with frantic shouts of what he was doing wrong and how he was going to make it worse, and to call someone like the freaking Avengers, or maybe Daredevil, because they had to have some sort of plan or cure-all pill to fix this. Instead, his thoughts went back to the journal he'd been keeping, and all the little observations inside about one itsy bitsy Spider-Man who isn't actually that itsy, but he's smaller than Wade so the analogy still stands.

Carefully, Wade lowers his hand onto Spider-Man's wrist, watching his trembling body for any signs of fear or discomfort. He doesn't grab it, just lays his hand on top of it, and rests it there. Spider-Man flinches violently and Wade would've pulled away if Spider-Man's finger hadn't twitched and flicked against his gloves. It flicks again, hesitant and unsure, as if he were dipping his toes into water and expecting a shark bite. But he doesn't pull away.

Taking that as a go-ahead, Wade lets his fingers spread down Spider-Man's wrist, and mimicking the way Spider-Man had done it to Spidey Jr, he gently rubs the area, just above the wrist joint. To his great surprise, and even greater relief, Spider-Man exhales a shaky breath and leans his head against the dumpster, shoulders dropping.

It's not perfect. There's still a tightness that lingers in his frame, like a strained rubber-band ready to snap, and his breathing is still as raspy and labored as a smoker. But his hand unsticks from the dumpster and wraps around Wade's forearm, clutching it like it's a piece of floating driftwood on a stormy sea.

"There we go," Wade says, "Just like that. See, I'm a friend. I'm not going to hurt you, Webs."

"There are things," Spider-Man whispers, choked and raw, "Ev- everywhere. They're watching us."

Wade takes his other wrist and rubs there too, "They're not real, I promise. And when was the last time I lied to you - and that one time I told you I hadn't eaten the last taco doesn't count. Technically, I ate half of it and a pigeon stole the rest. So it was only like, a half a lie. Point is, nothing is getting you on my watch. In the meantime, you need to come with me, okay? You can't stay here."

Spider-Man's grip tightens and the bones in Wade's forearm creak. Any harder, and they'd snap clean in half. He doesn't let up on the rubbing.

"Can't-" Spider-Man grits, shaking his head with the tenacity of a stubborn child refusing to go to school, "I can't go out there. They – they're everywhere. I _can't_ \- they'll get me - they'll-"

Wade shushes him, leaning in to keep it soft, "Hey, I won't let anything get you. You know me. I'm _Deadpool_. If anything even tries, they won't get two feet without saying hello to Bea and Arthur," he indicates to his strapped katana's with a tilt of his head.

Spider-Man considers that, lets it muddle through his thoughts and grind through the gears in his head before he nods. It's small, barely even a tilt, but it's all Wade needs. Tugging at his wrists, he pulls Spider-Man closer and helps him stand among the uneven ground of trash bags and cardboard boxes. As he aids Spider-Man in climbing out, a perfect mold of the hero's hand imprints into the dumpster's mouth. Wade stares at it.

He's losing control of his strength. If that isn't a sign that they need to skedaddle somewhere safe as fast as humanly possible, then Deadpool would be receiving his Honored Citizen award in the mail soon. Once again, he thanks the great Beyonce and Miss Fortune that he found Spider-Man before anyone else. Except for the homeless woman, but she was lucky to make it out unscathed, and she didn't count.

A frightened Spidey is a deadly one.

He whispers support and soothing placations as he fishes a phone from his pouches and dials a number.

"Hey, Dopinder," he says when the recipient picks up on the first ring, " I need a favor…"

* * *

Dopinder follows Wade's instructions and picks them up from that same alleyway. Wade tells Dopinder to shut the radio off as he helps Peter inside, because sensory overload is a bitch, and the driver does so with little argument. He does do a double-take though when Wade shuts the door behind him and settles into the backseat. He stares wide-eyed then darts his eyes to the passenger seat, and then back at Wade, before slowly turning around and pulling onto the street with a lot more grace and patience then he ever has before. Delicately, as if he'd entered a whole new world and he isn't sure what social etiquette is appropriate.

It was probably strange seeing Wade in the backseat. He'd always taken the front, smack-dab next to Dopinder, as they divulged the down and dirties of their week. This was new territory.

"Who's your friend, Mr. Pool?"

Wade half rolls his eyes, too focused on making sure Spider-Man isn't going to punch the cabs' old worn seats into fluff. The iconic red and blue suit isn't hard to place, and any 5-year-old on the street would be able to name the hero on sight.

"Just a work buddy," Wade chirps anyway. If Dopinder didn't know he had one of New York's most known superheroes in his cab, then Wade can keep it to himself. For Spider-Man's sake at least.

The hero in question is staring transfixed out the window and Wade follows his eyes to the street's outside, wondering what he was seeing in the shadows. He wants to turn him away or have him close his eyes until they were somewhere less populated and loud, but that won't help. So, he does the next best thing and retakes Spider-Man's wrist, rubbing it again.

Sensing the contact and registering what it meant, Spider-Man leaned closer into Wade's body, his grip on the seat belt loosening. His eyes never left the window.

He's shuddering and shaking, breaths catching in his throat ever so often as if some invisible spirit keeps popping up in his face and scaring him. How long has it been since he'd been injected? Close to an hour, maybe two, Wade thinks. He's surprised it's taking so long to clear out of his system. But then again, most LSD's were taken in small amounts, the smallest dot or thinnest square of solvent paper, and Spidey had been injected with enough to OD a regular man of his age and size.

Wade grimaces and leans closer as well, finding small comfort in being close to the other man, even if he isn't the one who needs it. He moves his fingers over Spider-Man's wrist to check his pulse, which is beating faster than it should've been. Erratically. Wade is no doctor - he does the breaking, not the healing - but he has a feeling that isn't a good sign.

"Hey, buddy o' pal of mine," Wade catches Dopinder's eyes through the rearview mirror, which have been glancing sporadically at them all through the drive, "How about you speed up a little? As graciously with as little bumpy-ness as possible. My friend here is...sick, and he needs soup and bed rest."

"Of course, Mr. Pool," Dopinder affirms with a determined nod and speeds up. It's still a tad too bumpy to be comfortable, but Wade figures that the sooner they make it to his safe house, the better.

* * *

When they arrive at the safehouse, Wade pays Dopinder his usual fee: a nice crisp high five – two in fact for being so speedy and as extra incentive to keep quiet about this late-night call – and leads Spider-Man inside.

It isn't an old gutted building or even the dingy scab-of-an-apartment he usually stays in while kicking his feet up in New York. It's an old, moldy warehouse near a wharf. It's isolated and off the records, paid for in cash under the table. No one would know it existed unless they happened to be wandering in the area and decided to break in. Which wouldn't be a good idea once they found out who was squatting in this shithole.

And a shithole it is. He hadn't been here in a while, and the state he'd left it in wasn't exactly going to earn him any brownie points from rodents that had taken up residence in his absence. The consequences of his neglect could be seen in a fine layer of dust, mold, and the half-eaten corpses of take-out cartons and beer bottles that had long-since died under unnatural causes.

Wade slaps and dusts off the couch as best as he can, finds a moth-eaten blanket that looks more or less suitable for use, and sits Spider-Man on the couch with it wrapped around his shoulders. He'd have to find something more comfortable and less grimy as soon as they're better situated.

Spider-Man immediately huddles into the couch corner, pulling into a tight ball that would've been nigh impossible without his flexibility, as Wade scouted an old trash bag stuffed in the corner and began making the place more acceptable to live in. Or sit in. Or breathe. Really, he might as well be cleaning up a biohazard.

"This is what you get for not hiring that fucking maid," Wade grumbles as he loads his arms with old plastic bags, containers, and empty bottles and shoves them into the garbage bag. "It's not enough to buy the outfit, you gotta _commit_."

Once it was full to bursting, he set it aside to be lit on fire later. The two-seater couch is stained, some with food sauce and others blood, but it's a far cry better than some of the other furniture he's owned in the past. At least, he doesn't think he blew his brains out in this one, that honor was saved for the mangled armchair decomposing 5 feet away. And the old port-a-potty he'd stuffed in a far corner of the room. He'd have to steer Spider-Man clear of that.

Thank Death herself that Webs didn't have any open wounds because this place was hardly sanitary, and just being in proximity to the make-shift kitchen would be enough to garner an infection.

He casts a worried glance at Spider-Man, who hadn't budged from his position. He curled the blanket tighter around himself, so only the top of his head was poking out, and it reminds Wade of a child hiding from a monster in their closet. He frowns, fretting with the lip of a moldy container.

Hopefully, this spiral won't last for long and they can go somewhere less revolting that isn't a health hazard when you breathe in too deeply, but in the meantime, he finds another garbage bag—this one with a small tear near the top—and begins stuffing it with everything in sight.

"It's gonna be okay, Webs," Wade says, and the lump beneath the blanket flinches, "It's 11:21, so it's only been a little over an hour. Knowing your healing factor, as shitty as it is, it shouldn't be much longer like this."

The muffled noise he gets in response doesn't sound reassured.

Wade keeps up a steady stream of chatter as he does his house cleaning. He knows from personal experience that a bad trip without someone there to ground you can make it so much worse. It's easy to disassociate from reality, so every 15 minutes he tells him the time too. Hallucinations were a bucking bronco ride interbred with a wet fever dream, so distorted actuality wasn't a reliable time-stamp.

"It's only been 15 minutes," Wade soothes when a pair of hands start strangling the blanket.

"It feels so much longer," Spider-Man whispers. His muscles are bunched so tightly, Wade stops being the perfect housemaid to lean over and gently squeeze them, soft enough not to startle him. He follows the same pattern he'd done back in the dumpster and rubs the hero's shoulders slow and gentle. Spider-Man immediately relaxes into the touch and even leans into it the way a frightened pet might if they were listening to a thunderstorm for the first time.

Wade is more than happy to provide. Thank _goodness_ he'd picked up this little spider-trick. He doubts he'd be able to get Spider-Man to calm down so quickly doing anything else. He switches from massaging his shoulders to rubbing down his arms, slow and firm to convey as much " _safe_ " as possible.

"I know," he says, "It feels like High School math all over again."

"I liked math."

Wade snorts, rolling his eyes, " _You_ would. I'm not even surprised. There was probably nothing normal about you even before you got your powers. Liked _math_ , what kind of freak likes math? Fine, what's a subject you didn't like?"

It takes Spider-Man a few minutes to answer, "Gym. I didn't like gym."

Wade raises a brow, "Really? You? Mr. Tarzan? Alright, fine, it's going to feel like a very long gym class, with scary demon coaches and a little gremlin sport-jocks. But it's not as long as it feels like it is, alright. See it's only been," he glances at the My Little Pony watch he'd slapped on just for this, "5 minutes. Probably felt like an hour, huh? You're going to be just fine, just hang in there buddy."

And hang in there he does. Or at least he tries. As soon as Wade finishes cleaning the would-be living room with the scarce cleaning supplies he had on hand, he joins Spider-Man on the couch for a break, sitting at the opposite end so the other man can see him and remember he isn't alone without feeling trapped. It's 10 minutes later when Spider-Man jumps off the cushion as if the devil itself had poked him in the ass with a pitchfork, and perches on top of the couch, clutching the wooden-frame with crushing hands as his breathing sky-rockets.

"Nnnh - n-no," He wheezes, tearing strips of cheap polyester off and shoots a web at the corner of the room. There's a hysteric slip in his voice. "G-go away! _Go away!_ I...I swear to fucking g- _"_

"Whoa, whoa, easy slugger," Wade jumps up, placing himself between Spider-Man and whatever figmentation had sprouted before his eyes, "Look at me, Spidey. Yeah, right here, in my big dumb mask. Some people say it looks like a really fucked up panda, so look into my stupid panda mask, full Po the Dragon Warrior shit, and listen to me."

It's hard to tell if Spider-Man is looking at him, but he isn't shooting at the wall, or Wade, so he assumes he isn't being ignored.

"Alright, breathe with me Webs. Five seconds inhale, eight seconds exhale. Okay, inhale," Wade breathes in deeply, "Exhale," he lets it back out. "Inhale...exhale," he keeps it up, urging Spider-Man to mimic him until they're breathing in sync.

He keeps it going for a few minutes before Wade coaxes him back down the couch, the back of the furniture unfortunately mangled in the process. Wade keeps up a steady stream of "it wasn't real" and "you're safe" until Spider-Man looks less like he wants to rip apart the furniture, and more like he wants to hide in a cabinet. Unfortunately, there are no cabinets or closets that Wade can offer as an optimal hidey-hole from the big bad monsters.

As Spider-Man sank back into his designated corner, Wade can't help but wonder what kinds of demons are playing peek-a-boo with New York's first-time boy scout druggie. Huh. Actually, while Spidey has that pesky no killing rule, he isn't as much of a boy scout as people were led to believe. He's relayed enough stories that involved good old fashioned B&E, taking copies of evidence from police precincts, sneaking evidence from crime scenes, and the odd bit of arson for Wade to call him a rule-follower.

So, he isn't a perfect boy scout, just has the moral compass of one. So what kind of skeletons is he hiding in his closet to garner a reaction like this? Wade can only guess, and whatever it was, it makes him itch to grab his knives and bury them inside something warm and fleshy.

Instead, he buries his fingers into Spider-Man's shoulders and rubs them and his upper arms until the shaking isn't reaching seizure levels. He doesn't return to his spot on the couch though and goes back to his mission in making the warehouse more liveable. The section he dares call a kitchen is an atrocity in itself and he doesn't even _want_ to check out the port-a-potty.

"Should've just brought him to the apartment," Wade curses, scrubbing at one of the few pans he had stashed and felt almost impressed with the amount of grease that comes off it. "Was just another 30 minutes drive...so much better than this dump...he's gonna hate it when his brain is back to normal...fucking disgusting...a landfill would've been less of a health hazard..."

Wade continues to peek at the other man as he works. He's back to curling up into a ball with the blanket burritoed around his body. But the drug might've finally started to filter out because his breathing isn't as erratic and his shoulders not as tense. Wade's always been taller than Spider-Man, wider too, but Spider-Man still has enough muscle mass to be impressive, and it's almost comical how small he'd manage to make himself. But it mostly just makes Wade wish he'd chopped off Ponytail's toes when he had the chance.

Over the next hour, Wade finishes up the make-shift kitchen, going just shy of bleaching every surface, before he moves onto the port-a-potty and, YEP, that was an atomic disaster in itself. Wade's lucky _he_ doesn't have any open wounds, because healing factor or not, it is rancid.

It's when he's toting out a bundle of old clothes he'd strewn around the port-a-potty that he takes a detour to check on his guest, and he has to do an immediate double-take. Spider-Man is fast asleep on the couch, the blanket a twisted snake around his torso and legs, mouth slightly parted, with his arm dangling over the side. And from his fingers, his mask stares at Wade with a far-too innocent glint.

Spider-Man's bare face is like a blaring red light, shooting all sorts of **WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!** messages into Wade's head that has him dropping the clothes and turning around while slapping a hand over his eyes.

 _Fuck!_ Spider-Man seriously needed to stop pulling his mask off when Wade was in proximity because dammit the temptation to look is getting too strong and he can't keep this up. He was allowed to see Spidey's face in _civvies_ , not the Spider-Man suit. It crossed the Spider-Man/Civilian line and it made Wade feel like a shy-teenager seeing a porn-magazine for the first time every time he caught a glance. Like he wasn't supposed to be seeing it and was afraid of getting into trouble if he was caught. It was different seeing the magazine in someone else's room because in that case, it wasn't really his fault anymore, was it?

"You're a fucking meat-pocketed, puss-leaking hypocrite," Wade grouches into his hands, "A two-timing, no good lying, stalking backstabber and you're fucking lucky that drug exchange happened when it did or he was going to dangle you off a bridge for a week."

Wade _was_ lucky their little confrontation had been interrupted. He liked tugging on the line, trying to reel Spider-Man in, but not when it had the Lochness Monster on the other end. He really should've thought about that when he took up his observational habit.

He mutters more offensive things to himself as he takes the clothes back in his arms and scurries away. If Spider-Man is asleep, that probably means the drug is subsiding and his body is finally flushing the rest of it out.

Wade isn't sure when he'll wake up, but he'll be hungry when he does. Spider-Man likes pizza right? Yes, of course, he does. They have pizza all the time. It was a Wednesday special. Wade shook his head, trying to focus on hunting down his burner phone instead of thinking about the way Spider-Man's hair stuck out in so many directions.

"Burner phone," he told himself firmly, "Burner phone. Burner phone. Brunette phone - no. _Fuck_."

He finds it perched on an old microwave two rotations away from exploding and punches in the number to Eddie's Pizza. He orders the desired amount for two superhumans with the metabolisms of an elephant, then argues with the worker on the other end about delivery parameters, there are promises of very brutal injuries, and Wade makes a mental note to find a new safe house after all this is over, before tossing the phone on the counter and stalking back to the should-be living room.

Only to quickly double back when he remembers the very maskless Spider-Man and veers back to the port-a-potty to pretend to scrub the floor, keeping his eyes trained on the brown bloodstains so they don't stray to his unconscious guest.

* * *

Spider-Man wakes up a little bit after the pizza arrives. The smell was probably what roused him. He groans, pulling himself up on trembling arms, blinking blearily, and smacking his lips to get rid of that pasty taste on one's tongue after sleeping for a while.

Wade was sitting in the stained armchair. Well, he was lounging in it more accurately, with his legs propped over the side and his back leaning against the armrest. His mask was pulled halfway up his face so he could gnaw on a slice of pizza as he played on his phone.

He had moved the chair so it was facing the wall, not the couch, but he can still see Spider-Man sit up through the corner of his eye. He freed one hand to point at the stack of pizza boxes on the duct-taped table.

"Food's all yours," he says around his slice, spilling grease down his chin, "Arrived 5 minutes ago, so it's still warm. Help yourself."

Spider-Man doesn't immediately reach for it. One hand rubs at the side of his head and he groans again, hunching a little before the other lethargically grabs the box on top of the stack. His fingers graze his face a few times and he freezes. He presses his palm against his cheek and prods a few other places on his face before twisting around frantically.

"Where's my mask? _Where's_ my mask? Why is it off? Did you-"

"Easy buckaroo," Wade flaps a hand at him, "You took it off yourself. I would've put it back on, but that probably would've just freaked you out. So I didn't. But don't worry, I was a good boy and I didn't sneak a peek. Not willingly at least, you know you should really warn a guy before you take that thing off. Second time," he held up two fingers for emphasis, "That's _twice_ as many times as I'm sure you're comfortable with and more than enough to stick in my noodle brain. You really need to figure that out, it's beginning to be a problem. You know what they say about forming bad habits."

"Wade-"

"But yeah, I didn't take it off. Cross my heart and wish for death. I'll swear on Blind Al's grave as soon as she dies if you want. Get me a Bible and I'll swear on that too. Whatever suits your fancy. But I didn't do it."

" _Wade_. Calm down, I believe you," Spider-Man pulls the pizza box into his lap and digs in. His appetite is raring to go, as Wade suspected it would be. That was a good sign, even if he seemed too tired to panic over being massless in front of Wade for an indeterminate amount of time, "How long was I...uh..."

"Higher than a helium balloon? Longer than I thought you'd be. Roughly," he glances at his watch, "Five-six hours. With your superhuman-ness, I figured it might be three hours, four tops. But that was a shit-ton of drugs they pumped in your system, so I guess your shitty healing factor couldn't flush it all out."

Spider-Man's mask is back on now, so Wade adjusts his chair so they're face to face. Spider-Man's mask is pulled up to his nose so Wade gets a perfect view of his scowl. A long string of cheese forms a bridge between his mouth and the slice held sacredly in his hands.

"You know, just because I don't have a heal-from-all healing factor, doesn't mean it's shitty."

Wade snorted, "If it can't heal-from-all, it's not very good at its job, is it?"

"We can't all walk off a gunshot wound 'Pool."

"How unfortunate for you in your line of work."

Spider-Man looks like he wants to argue, but his head tilts as he considers that, and shrugs, going back to eating. Wade let him inhale a few slices before addressing the tremors still racking his frame.

"How're you feeling? If you're feeling queasy you probably shouldn't eat a lot. I just cleaned this floor and all that hard work would be for nothing."

"I'm-" Spider-Man sucks in a small breath, his lenses contracting in a way that means his eyes are closed. His free hand digs into his leg. "My heart is still kind of...racing. I feel kind of - of drowsy. My head hurts," as if remembering he presses hard fingers into his temples, "I...I can remember... _things_. Like...freaky things. Coming out of the floor and ceiling, and staring at me."

Wade ignores it as the avatar in his game dies and sits up. He thinks about rubbing Spider-Man's wrist again if just to soothe him, but he's looking a lot more lucid now and Wade isn't sure if the act would just get him tossed out a window.

"Yep, those are hallucinations for you," he leans forward, feeling somewhat awkward as he knit and unknit his hands together, "Do you...want to talk about it? Maybe? I mean, they can be pretty scary so if you want to like...talk...I can listen..."

Spider-Man smiles, but it looks like he's trying to swallow around a metal block, "No. Maybe later. I just," he takes another breath and picks up a new slice of pizza, "I'm just hungry right now."

Wade holds his palms up, "Amen to that babe, pass me a box wouldya?"

* * *

They end up dragging out Wade's old game console. The cracked TV barely manages to flicker to life, and the games themselves are several years old, but they make jokes about the characters and scrounge up obscure challenges and dares as they play, so it's a lot more fun than Wade expects it to be.

The pizza is finished off with little mercy and even less fanfare. Wade offers to order more, his safehouse is already compromised whether or not the only person who knew was the tired delivery girl, but he should've known Spider-Man would turn him down. From what Wade's gathered from his observations, Spidey doesn't enjoy people doting on him.

Seems just like the bastard.

He regrets it the moment he lets the words slip out, "You should really let people help you out. Your skinny ass needs to eat more."

Spider-Man tenses and it allows Wade to finish off his avatar with a flurry of combination moves that wouldn't be possible outside pixels. He doesn't celebrate his victory. His blood turns to ice and he feels like a poker player revealing his cards too early. As though he lost a silent game he was playing with himself.

_Good job, Wilson. You were the only player and you still lose._

He doesn't look at Spider-Man and quickly starts a new match, getting a few good hits in before the other man shakes his head a few times and numbly starts defending himself. It's silent for a long period before the other shoe inevitably falls.

"How long have you been watching me?"

Wade considers not answering. Or just alluding the question the way he had back in the warehouse. Couldn't be condemned for a crime he didn't confess to, right? That's how this worked. He's behind in watching _Law and Order_ but that's a legal excuse. It makes sense. Besides, it's not like Wade had said anything particularly condemning. He could've been talking about Spider-Man on his patrols. He practically inhales food and if you manage to catch him with his shirt off, it was obvious he wasn't eating enough. Wade could've easily been talking about that.

Instead, his shoulders sag and he doesn't have the heart to block the aggressive succession of unrealistic fighting hits that drop his avatar's life bar into orange. He doesn't know if Spider-Man's projecting, but if he is, he takes stock of the closest exits just in case. Then again, if Spider-Man does decide to, justifiably, kick his ass, Wade isn't about to stop him.

"Only this week," he mumbles. "And just that. I promise."

Spider-Man's tone is harder and his jabs on the controller a little more hostile than necessary, but he refuses to look at Wade. "Did you look into me? Get all my information from your merc buddies?"

Wade snorts unintentionally, "What buddies? I think you're my only real buddy, Webs," _for however long that will be,_ is what he doesn't say. "And no, I didn't. It was just some...light observations. I didn't follow you home, I didn't look into your private life, and I didn't uncover your name. I only watched you at work and occasionally when you ran errands. I only know the surrounding area where you live, not your actual address. And before you use it against me, I already know your face so that's not anything new."

He doesn't have the right to defend himself, but his hackles are raised and it's more second-nature than anything. Vainly, Wade tries to pull his character back from the brink of death, but Spider-Man isn't having any of that and depletes the rest of his life-bar with a cold-cut vengeance. He doesn't revel in his victory either and instead of opting to go for another round, he drops the controller like he was the one to get his spleen drop-kicked out of his body. He fiddles with the cord.

"So you don't know who I am?"

"No," Wade insists, turning sideways to look at him, "I don't." Even though he has an idea of who he might be. Spider-Man's a photographer at the Daily Bugle, a news company with a reputation for slandering Spider-Man's name and having some of the most amazing pictures of the hero that should be nigh impossible to get. Pictures that have the photographer's name printed in the corner for anyone to see. So, yeah, Wade can guess on one hand who Spider-Man is, but he refuses to give it any thought.

Doesn't matter, though. Spider-Man knows how easy the dots are to connect; a middle-schooler could figure it out. He makes a frustrated noise and the cord bends between his fingers. Wade might've been concerned that it would ruin the console if he actually cared. He plays with his own controller, pushing buttons into memorized combo moves against an adversary neither of them can see.

"Why?" Spider-Man finally growls, and if Wade gave it any more thought, he could detect the splintering hint of betrayal in his tone.

Wade crossed a line. They've been crime-fighting buddies for a while now, and despite his reservations and the limits he'd given himself, he'd still crossed something that wasn't supposed to be crossed. He betrayed Spider-Man's trust.

His heart falls the same time his stomach drops. Shame, guilt, all the good chemicals that made him want to walk into oncoming traffic.

"I...wanted to figure you out," he mumbles.

"You wanted to figure me out?" Spider-Man's scoff is thick with derision and disbelief, "You followed me around, _behind my back_ , so you could 'figure me out?"

"Well, it sounds dumb when you say it like that."

"It's dumb regardless. What did you need to figure out about me? We've been patrolling together for...how long? Almost a year? What else did you need to figure out?"

 _Oh, if only you knew_. Wade wants to know _everything_. All the feelings he tries to play off as jokes and half-hearted seductions curl back like shriveled petals to reveal the slime beneath. He wants to know everything about Spider-Man. He wants to know how he sounds in the morning. Wants to know how he wears his hair, what his favorite juice is. If he likes his sandwich with the crusts cut off. He wants to see the curve of his lips and the eyes that match it. He wants to dissect everything about Spider-Man like a deranged scientist and commit every detail to memory.

He wants to know his name.

But how the fuck is he supposed to say that without coming off as a creepy lunatic?

"Have you ever noticed how fucking weird your spidery-ness is?" is what tumbles out of his mouth and Wade winces. His hope for a helpful brain plummets head-first into a vat of lava.

Spider-Man's eyes narrow, "Yeah Wade, I _live_ with it. I think I know how fucking weird I am," he gets to his feet, fixing his mask securely over his chin and tugs at his web-shooters to make sure they're snug on his wrist. Wade had returned the one he had not long after Spider-Man woke up. "Thanks for helping me out and letting me recover at your place, but I need to go home."

That's what makes Wade's head snap up and he scrambles to his feet, "Are you sure? You don't feel any-"

"I'm fine," Spider-Man interrupts, already stalking to the closest window, "If there's any of the drug left in my system, I'll sleep it off. Besides, I got work tomorrow. But," he glanced halfway over his shoulder, "You probably already knew that."

Before Wade has the chance to utter an apology, or even tell him tomorrow is Saturday and he actually _doesn't_ have work, Spider-Man is gone and Wade's alone with nothing but the obnoxious music coming from the TV. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, and when Wade turns, he kicks the couch before he even notices that he lifted his foot.

"Motherfucking _fuck-up_ ," he shouts as he kicks it again and again.

* * *

Spider-Man avoids him for the next couple days and after a game of hide-and-seek through the city that resulted in Wade getting his feet webbed to the sidewalk, he comes to the conclusion that Spider-Man wants some space.

It's probably for the best anyway. You can't throw a pebble 5 feet in New York without hitting some hero or vigilante or anti-hero, and the only reason most of them didn't try to boot Wade out of their territories themselves was because Spider-Man was there to "babysit" him. Not that any of that could stop Wade from doing a job if that's what he wanted—but they didn't like talking about that.

So he takes a few jobs that bring him to a handful of long-distance locations like Norway, Japan, and even a backwater town that isn't even on a map. Far away from the 5 boroughs, and the clamor of NYC, and all the steaming-pots dressed in red and blue spandex. He takes his frustration out on whatever poor bastard decides it was a smart idea to step between him and his target, and rakes in enough money to replace his warehouse 10 times over.

Not that he does. He'll have to find a new one if he decides to pop back into New York, but that's just all the more incentive to avoid going back. Wade _hates_ apartment-hunting. Even if his chosen hideouts are less legitimate apartments and more on the side of gutted, run-down buildings that should be condemned, torn down, and rebuilt. He reasons that he already has a few other safe houses in and around NYC, and he doesn't particularly NEED a new one. But those have their pros and cons for a variety of different reasons. Wade needs a place he can go when the voices get bad and he can spend a few hours with a bullet in his head without some nosy neighbor doing their "civic duty" and checking out the loud BANG coming from his apartment.

He learned his lesson after the many times he'd woken up in a morgue or on a hospital gurney or in a body bag. Here's a pro tip: if you want to die in peace, you have to pull the trigger somewhere people will mind their own damn business.

By the time Wade wraps up his final contract, and his off-shore accounts are overflowing with cash, he decides it's time to dip his toes back into the City that Never Sleeps.

He arrives with little fuss and commotion. Instead of donning his suit, he dresses in the superhero patented hoodie, pants, and ballcap and wanders the streets pretending to be just another civilian pushing and shoving their way through the day. He keeps his head down and sticks close to buildings so he doesn't' have to stray too far into the crowds, not sure if he can handle being pointed and gawked at today.

Fortunately, New York wasn't a stranger to new and grotesque sights, given the number of alien invasions they've witnessed, so out of all the places Wade has been, the gawking is fairly minimum. It'd be worse if he strutted around with booty-shorts and a crop-top, but all things considered, New York citizens were pretty good at ignoring people outside their social sphere.

Wade buys himself a hotdog from one of the many vendors littering the city and munches noisily on it as he trudges blindly through the tangle of streets. He's somewhere near Central Park when the crowd of tourists on the other side of the street start gasping and pointing, and Wade shrinks into his hoodie when a shadow zips across the ground. Seamlessly, he steps under the awning of a store as Spider-Man swoops between the buildings above and disappears within seconds upon arriving. Must be running late for something.

The coast is clear, but Wade stays under the awning anyway until the store-owners start giving him the stink-eye and he merges back into the sidewalk traffic, keeping an eye on the sky just in case. He can avoid Spider-Man, but it's not going to last forever. Lady Universe has a way of smashing people with relationship issues back together just for laughs and giggles.

When walking gets boring, Wade calls on Dopinder, who always has an endless amount of chatter about his life, and his wife and kids, and his strange new hobbies. For once, Wade doesn't have to be the one fueling the conversation, and he appreciates Dopinder catching onto his mood and keeping the one-sided chat running by himself.

He's dropped off in a relatively calm neighborhood. The building he enters is well maintained with blooming plants in flower boxes, just starting to turn brown and yellow as temperatures dropped, and a polite woman who oversees the tenants and maintenance. It's the home of a large number of families, mostly divorced or widowed with kids, who need a cheap place to live. Even the odd mutant or two who needed a place to stay that wasn't a street bench. Wade pays to keep the building sustained and comfortable, and the rates low enough to be affordable. But he doesn't like staying here.

Being so close to kids reminds him of Ellie, and that's an open-wound if there ever was one. Besides, he didn't want to lead any of his unfriendly "work-friends" to a place overloaded with families. As Deadpool, he could scare off a number of trouble, from motley gangs to shady drug dealers, but he still had his own rogue gallery that wouldn't give a second thought to blowing up this building to get back at him. So, yeah, he tends to avoid this place and is careful to leave no crumbs behind.

But not today. He has a couple of extra suits stored here and he needs somewhere to hunker down as he safe-house hunts.

For the first time upon arriving in the city, he doesn't have to plaster on a fake smile as the tenants out and about greet him. The kids are more than happy and jump around like the monkeys they are, asking how "Mr. Wilson has been," or "how long will you be staying?" and even "What did you do while you were gone." They trail behind him like a bunch of chattering ducklings, excited at the prospect of stories Wade has to pg-ify for their innocent ears.

Despite the cloud hanging over him, Wade can't help but grin and tousled a few of their heads before pulling himself away.

Inside his mangy apartment, he plops on the dust-infected couch, sneezes, and dials up a familiar number. Weasel knows not to leave him on voice-mail and picks up on the third ring.

"OH WEEEEAAASSSEEELLLL," Wade moans breathily into the phone before the other man has the opportunity to tell him to jump off a bridge.

An exasperated noise is his reward.

"Dammit Wade, I swear if you called me while jacking off again I'm sending someone to cut off your dick."

Wade snickers, fixing his position so he's lounging on the couch, full Victorian-style draping over the cushions. "You always say the nicest things. Do you _want_ my dick, Weasel Weiner? I mean, you can have it if you want. I can always grow another one."

Weasel makes a disgusted noise that has Wade laughing again. "Keep your dick to yourself, Wilson. And stop calling me Weasel Weiner."

"Fine, Weasel _Weenie."_

A sigh. Wade can imagine Weasel pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why did you call me?"

"I'm safe-house hunting in New York and I need some options."

"I thought you already had a safe-house in New York? Like...quite a few of them actually."

"Yeeeaah, one of em' got discovered so I had to flake on it, and now I need a new one."

Another exasperated noise, "Why? Who found it?"

Wade shrugged, fiddling with the draw-string of his hoodie, "It just got compromised, okay. You know I don't like it when people know where I live."

"Then why don't you stop ordering take-out while at the fucking safehouse? _Fuck_ , Wade. You ever just consider that you're making your own problem?"

"All the time," Wade tips his head in agreement, "But that's not the point, Weenie. Do you have some places? I know you do."

Weasel sighs for the third time and a few minutes pass as he looks through whatever the hell Weasel does to get his information, "Umm, looks like there are some places in the Bronx and the Upper-East side of Manhattan that look like your type of squat. Pretty remote and abandoned, or as close as you can get to that here. Oh, looks like there's one in Hell's Kitchen that could work."

Wade snorts in so much dust it makes him sneeze twice, "Dare Devil would piss himself out of anger if he thought I was setting up base on his turf," he says, rubbing his nose, "I'll give those other places a lookie-loo though. Gimme an address."

"Anyone would piss themselves in anger if they had to look at your ugly mug on a weekly basis," Weasel grumbles, "What would you do without me, Wilson?"

"I'd probably have better self-esteem, for starters."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm sending over the addresses now. Try not to compromise these ones, yeah? You do, I'll send the X-Men your ZIP code and street number."

"You do that and I'm calling the cops on your little bar, Weasy-kins. How up-to-date did you say your liquor license was again?"

Weasel grumbles again and Wade grins shittily at the ceiling. Ah, yes, how he misses these squabbles. His grin falls just as quickly as it was built when Weasel asks, "Oh hey, also, what's up with your boy? Spider-Man?"

Wade cocked his head, the finger curling around the hoodie string freezing as he looked up. He pulls the phone away to squint at it as if he could transmit his scowl over the wire. Did Weasel know about their falling out? He shouldn't. Wade hasn't mentioned it, and Spider-Man sure as hell wouldn't. He's only met Weasel once, and that was through the phone when Wade had called him up for criminal information.

He puts it back to his ear, wringing the string more aggressively between his fingers, "What about him?"

"His name has been popping up in the criminal underbelly for a few weeks now. I know you were going on your monthly murder-spree, so I couldn't ask about it. But it seems he's been catching the attention of quite a few people."

Wade sat up, shifting the phone to his other ear so he could dig out his other non-work phone and search up the most recent Spider-Man news and fan-tweets. There's nothing out of the ordinary. Just the same Bugle reports slamming Spider-Man's name in the dirt, and the odd fan-tweet about spider-sightings. In fact, despite a strange decrease in low-level street-crime, there was nothing about the last few weeks that stood out. Not even your usual spin of the villain roster.

"Who's been asking about him and what do they want?"

"Are you," Weasel pauses, "Are you using your _Deadpool_ voice on me? Stop it. I'm not the one asking about him, asshat, I'm just picking up chatter."

" _Weasel_."

"Okay, _okay_. Not sure, alright. They started as whispers, but they've been picking up. Not quite sure what they're after, but your boy is under surveillance by quite a few crime syndics and gangs. They're looking for something and they think he has it."

"Do you know what it is?"

"If I knew that don't you think I would've sold that information to the Avengers already?"

Wade growled into the phone.

"Kidding. _Jeez_. Fucking Odin! What's got your thong in a bunch? No, I don't know what it is. But they're getting itchy. You might want to let him know before something goes down. I'm going to hang up now because I don't think I feel safe where this conversation is headed."

He knows better than to hang up on him though, and it's Wade who ends the call. He bounds off the couch and flings open the door to his closet where a nice, dusty array of red suits are hanging up.

He has a spider to talk to.

* * *

Wade knows there's something wrong with Spider-Man the moment he lays eyes on him. Unlike earlier that day, he was now close enough to pick up on every hitch and strain that rippled from the hero's body that wasn't noticeable from the ground. In fact, before Wade pulls himself into view, he pauses and does a quick glance over to make sure Spider-Man isn't gravely injured.

As expected, Spider-Man tenses as Wade silently pulls himself onto the rooftop, so spider-sense was still a little snitch. Spider-Man slowly stands to his full height, easing out of his crouch the strained way a grandpa might pull himself out of a chair as if every single joint ached. To add another tally to Wade's Chart of Concern, he turns his entire body toward him instead of simply glancing over his shoulder, as he normally would've done. It reminds Wade of athletes and bodybuilders after a hard workout, like he was concerned about pulling a muscle if he moved too fast.

Wade swings his hands by his side, wishing he had something to offer, like a burrito, or maybe a time-machine. "Hey...Spidey..."

"Deadpool," Spider-Man curtly nods back and it feels like a nerf-bullet in the eye. If he's angry but acting polite, then Wade was farther in the doghouse than he thought.

Another few minutes drag by.

Wade coughs into his fist and takes a long sweeping look around the rooftop. It's not too far from Wade's 3rd favorite food-stand he notices. "So, um...how've you been?"

"Fine."

"Uh-huh," Wade eyes his stiff posture again, not bothering to be subtle about it, " _Right_...okay." If Spider-Man notices, he doesn't say anything.

Fuck, he should've brought tacos or pizza to break the ice. Spider-Man was biologically drawn to anything greasy and full of calories, and it would buy Wade a good 10 minutes to say his piece before the hero's patience wore thin and he left.

When the silence stretches like a taut rubber band, Spider-Man breaks it with a sigh as he brings his creaking arms into a gentle fold over his chest, "What do you want Wade?"

There are a million and one things Wade can start with. For one, he can ask about the spontaneous decrease in crime, because even with the city's heroes, a change that drastic in such a short time was weird AF. Two, bring up that the ugly criminal underbelly of the city was setting their sights on Spidey's sculpted ass. Or three, call him out on the obvious bullshit that was 'I'm fine" when Wade could hear Spider-Man's groans from 8 feet away. Instead, what tumbles out of his mouth in an avalanche of letters is, "Are you still mad at me?"

He has to resist the impulse to smack his head into the nearest wall because he can _feel_ Spider-Man's judgmental eyebrow raise.

Spider-Man hums too loud to be natural and taps his chin in exaggerated contemplation, "Hmmm, am I still pissed that you followed me behind my back, completely crossed a line we promised _not_ to cross, and then disappear for weeks on end? Yes. Yes, I'm still pissed."

Wade holds out his hands, "Okay, okay, yes I can see why you're still mad. A simple 'yeah, dude' would've sufficed. And you know, we never _actually_ agreed not to cross that line. No words were spoken, so I wasn't bound by any verbal contract, and-" he paused, "Wait, why are you mad I left? I was giving you space. You know, that thing people do so other people can cool off."

"It was an unspoken agreement, Wade, don't even try to play that card. I never ask about your scars or your past, and you don't look into my civilian life."

Wade concedes that point with a yielding shrug. It had gone primarily unspoken, but Spider-Man never brought up the scars or the rumors about Wade's past, and in turn, Wade didn't get information on him. It was a good symbiotic relationship that didn't involve any slimy goop aliens. Wade could say he still _technically_ doesn't know that much about the hero, but Wade can see where the line had been breached. He's mentally unstable, not stupid.

"Okay, fine. That's fair. I yield to your logic and accept all consequences to my actions. But don't try to brush over that other thing either. What does me leaving have to do with anything? I thought you would want time away from all this," he gestures to himself, "You know, let the temperatures cool and all that good stuff."

Spider-Man's crossed arms get tighter and he turns his head to the side. A tell-tale sign that he doesn't want to talk about it. Spider-Man was stubborn that way, but Wade can be a hell of a lot more stubborn if he wants. He's had many years to perfect the art.

He doesn't give Spider-Man the escape and leaves to the side to get a look at those narrowed lenses, and so Spidey can see in turn that Wade isn't going to let it go. "Webs, why are you mad I left?"

For a solid 5 minutes, Spider-Man ignores Wade and eyes the next building over as if contemplating a new, safer vantage point. But Wade has a track record when it comes to people ignoring him, and not even Spider-Man can ignore him for long before he inevitably snaps, "Because you didn't own up to what you did, alright. You just upped and left and hoped it would fix itself when you got back. _That's_ why."

Wade squints at him for a long second. "Bullshit. What's the real reason."

The response is to be expected, an angry Spidey who doesn't like being called out, but what Wade doesn't expect is the crisp sound of tearing flesh when Spider-Man's head whips to the side to glare at him, like someone was ripping apart stacks of paper inside his suit. Before he has the opportunity to ask what the ever-loving _fuck_ that was, or even breathe for that matter, Spider-Man is in his face, lenses so narrowed they are nothing but slits.

"Fine! It's because you just _left,_ Wade. You upped and walked away. Yeah, I was pissed, but that didn't mean I wanted you to just fucking disappear. I know you'd rather swim in acid than talk about your feelings. I get it. Emotions suck. I don't like doing it either. But I would've rather we had talked about it then getting nothing but radio silence for 5 _fucking_ weeks."

Wade blinks several times and it's the only physical sign that he's absorbing Spider-Man's outburst. The words roll around in his head, tumble together a few times, before they're hit with the logical-hammer and click.

He squints, then glowers, and then scowls, "Okay, but _you_ were the one who ignored _me_ first. I tried to talk to you for 5 days," he held up the appropriate number with his fingers, "and I got nothing but radio silence. Hypocrisy what is thy name?"

It's hard to tell with the mask on, but Wade has gotten good at reading Spider-Man, and right now he's thinking the hero wants to tear his hair out. Instead, he makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and stalks away. He returns to his ledge where Wade has interrupted his brooding and rubs his temples. His voice quiets into a mumble meant only for himself, "I _so_ don't have the energy for this right now. Ugh, why does it have to hurt so much... _fucking hell_." He sounds suddenly tired like he hasn't been sleeping. But there's a whiny pitch to it too, like a kid moaning about growing pains. He switches his finger-massage to his forearm and digs deep into his skin, kneading the flesh. When that doesn't satisfy whatever ache he's nursing, he slips the glove off to give it a more hands-on treatment.

The reminder of his aches and pains brings Wade back to the reason he's out there in the first place.

"Hey," he says, easing back a little so the tension can smooth out, "I know we did that cute little thing where we misunderstand each other and it's blown out of proportion and we both have a moment - classic us, and all - and I promise we can get back to hugging and apologies and shit right after, but first," he takes the liberty of a few steps closer, "What's been going on while I was gone? And why do you look and sound like you just got beat up by a cracker?"

Spider-Man doesn't bother turning around this time, "What are you talking about it? It's been quiet ever since you left. Hardly a crime bigger than the occasional purse-snatcher or mugger. And I told you, I'm fine."

He doesn't sound fine. He sounds two seconds from hurling himself over the ledge.

Wade eyes him again and takes a strategic step to the left so that if Webs does decide to make a run for it, he would know the moment he lifted a finger, "Hmmm, yeah, _okay,_ cause that was suuuuper convincing. Seriously, Webs. Are you okay?"

"Wade, I'm _fine_."

"You don't sound fine. I don't know if you were there, but your skin just went," Wade mimicked the ripping sound with a hand movement to match, "and that's kind of concerning. You're not hiding injuries again are you?"

"I would need someone to _fight_ to hide injuries, don't you think?"

"Spidey _,_ seriously. If this is a pride thing just stop playing with the stick up your ass for a second and tell me if there's something wrong. I didn't bust both of my legs tracking you down to pretend you're hunky-dory-dandy."

Spider-Man blows out an annoyed puff of air and turns sharply, a single finger in the air to signify the point he was about to drill into Wade's head when they both freeze as a crackling, splinting sound erupts beneath Spider-Man's suit, the sound on par to someone taking a handful of dry spaghetti noodles and twisting them in half. A beat. And suddenly Spider-Man is hunching over, groaning in pain with his arms plastered around his torso. Wade lurches forward, arms out to grab him so he doesn't tumble off the building, but Spider-Man teeters away, a hand up as if to keep Wade at arm's length.

"Fuck," he wheezes, small and tight, " _Fuck._ Wade, I - I gotta go." He stumbles away, prying an arm from his side to shoot a web, but Wade is faster and grabs his forearm.

"Hold the fuck up McFucking Liar Ass, you're not web-slinging like _this_. Do you want to fucking kill yourself? Hell to the no, not on my watch. What the mcfucking fuck is going on. Sit down. _Sit down_."

"Wade, let go. I'm fine," Spider-Man wheezes, which is pitiful because he can't even uncurl himself long enough to tug his arm free. He looks and sounds like someone had sucker-punched him in the gut with the Infinity Gauntlet.

Wade grabs his ungloved arm tightly, "No."

" _Let go_."

" _No_."

"Let. Go!" Spider-Man rips his arms free, but it isn't the only thing that comes off.

Wade stumbles back, barely catching himself on the building ledge, and slowly looks down at the long strip of skin bunched in his fist. On Spider-Man's arm, a large wet spot glares at them, angry, red, and painful.

Wade shrieks. Spider-Man shrieks. They both shriek, looking between the wad of skin and the gaping wound, and then Spider-Man is jumping off the building and swinging away at record-breaking speeds, cracking all the way. Wade throws the bunched skin across the roof, shaking and flapping his hands to get rid of the feel of it. The tearing sound it made as it peeled off would haunt his brain forever.

He's seen a lot of gross messed up shit in his lifetime. But that was HIS gross messed up shit. Spider-Man wasn't supposed to have this kind of gross messed shit. Skin-peeling was something that happened to people like Wade _,_ and Frankenstein's monster, and dead corpses. Not from _Spider-Fucking-Man_.

"Fine, my ass," Wade seethes, rubbing his hands on his pants. "Not when your skin's coming off like someone's been doing the behind-grind with a cheese grater." He leans over the edge of the roof to get a sense of the direction Spider-Man had fled.

"Deja vu."

Whatever injury the hero was trying to hide, it was slowing him down, and Wade watched him disappear behind a building not far from where he was at. He'll have to track Spider-Man down the old-fashioned way. A good ol' game of eye-spy-with-web-strands and hoping you're going the right direction.

Or he could go to the Bugle and finally get that address. It'd save him on time and energy. But he'd have to risk people being there and then Spider-Man being more pissed at him before, and all that other good stuff. Wade warrs with the option as he scales down the building with all the prowess of a merc expert in his field, and trails after Spider-Man from ground level.

Turns out, it wasn't as hard as he thought. Normally, it would've been nigh impossible to track Spider-Man from the ground, especially at his full strength. But tonight, Spider-Man is not at his full strength. He's slow. Sloppy. And it's laughably easy to follow his trail to a dingy-looking apartment building that's not even fit to house Logan. Windows are grimy, some cracked, the bricks look a breath away from crumbling. This building was a demolition-job waiting to happen.

He spots Spider-Man disappearing around the side of the building and gets there in time to watch him pull himself into a window on the 5th floor. Worry clashes in Wade's stomach like serrated knives, hacking at his innards.

He hesitates for a split second, before jogging to the old-rusted fire-escape and heaving himself onto it.

"He's going to be pissed," he mutters to no one as he put a foot in the rung ladder and hauls himself up another level, "So pissed. Even more than he was before. He's going to web you in a cocoon and drop you on the X-Men's doorstep. He's going to drop-kick you to Avengers Tower with a restraining order. Going to fill all your socks and shoes with spider-glue."

When he gets to the targeted window, it's still open, so he knocks on the upper pane before peering inside. "Spidey," he hopes his guest manners will pull him some points for all the boundaries he's about to break, "I know you want me to go away, and like, I totally get that, but I'm pretty sure your body just ripped itself in half. And I also pulled off a chunk of your skin, sorry about that, but I'm pretty sure that's not normal. I'm not a doctor, and I don't know shit about medical stuff, but I think our skin is supposed to stay _on_ our bodies."

The loud ghoulish groan that filters through the room makes Wade's head cock to the side.

"Go away," Spider-Man moans out of sight, in the least sexy way possible, "Please, Wade. Just leave me alone." There's a flurry of movement as a hand reaches somewhere from the floor, its owner probably laying on the other side of the bed, as he pulls a blanket on top of himself.

Wade clicks his tongue as he steps inside, "No can do, Webs. You see, I have this annoying little habit of being concerned when my buddy ol' pal starts shedding skin. It's very un-a _peeling_ , if you catch my drift."

Spider-Man's chuckle is rough and full of pain, "Funny you should word it like that."

Wade rounds the bed and nudges the lump on the floor with the toe of his boot. Spider-Man hunches underneath the blanket, sounding as though he was crushing a box of chip-bags inside. Wade winces and crouches, poking very, very gently at what he hopes is Spider-Man's butt.

"Hey," he whispers, "Seriously, what's wrong Webs? You sound like the world's yuckiest kit-kat whenever you move."

The hands curled into the blanket tightens and Spider-Man makes a pathetic attempt to squeeze himself into the floor. "Just go away," he tries again, in vain Wade might add, "I'll come find you in a few days, alright. I'll explain everything then, just...dont' worry about it. The doors right over there, lock it on your way out if you don't mind."

"Or you can explain everything now," Wade suggests with a huff, "Look, I know I can come across as a conceited asshat with the soul of a troll, but you can't expect me _not_ to worry when you're snap, crack, and popping like a rice-crispy commercial," softer, he says, "I...know I crossed some boundaries with the whole...you know, stalking you thing. I'm sorry if that hurt you, and I totally get why you don't trust me. But... _fuck_ Spidey, look at you. You can barely move. Can't I at least take you to Stark's Ivory tower to get you some medical help?"

Spider-Man is quiet under his blanket. But however muffled his voice is, it's still very firm as he says, "No hospital. No Stark Tower."

Deadpool lets out a hard breath, pinching the bridge of his nose to keep his frustration in check. Getting mad would only push Spider-Man's buttons and make it worse. It was easy to raise the guy's hackles.

"Webs, will you please tell me what's wrong? Pretty please with all my guns and swords on top? I'll buy you Chinese, or pizza, or burritos, whatever you want, for a year. And promise I won't take you to a hospital, no matter how bad it looks."

Spider-Man is silent again. Wade can almost hear the gears grinding in his head. He has to strain his hearing to pick up on what is muttered into the dirty floorboard.

"It's...really gross."

Wade can't hold back his snort, "Spidey-Babe, I can handle gross. I mean, have you _seen_ this face. Nothing gets quite as revolting as seeing that in the mirror every morning."

That doesn't seem to help and Spider-Man curls up tighter, snap, cracking, and popping once more. Wade digs his fingers into his thighs to make sure he doesn't rip the blanket off and strip Spider-Man down for bodily injuries. Patience has never been his strong suit. He likes head-on approaches. Loud explosions and popping guns, and chaos to fill the world outside his head. The only times he sits still is when he's by himself and there's nothing to distract him from the off-kilter way the world feels, like everything has been moved just a little to the left. When the voices are too loud, and the weight on his chest too overwhelming, the bite of a gun is the only thing that can shut the world up.

But it pays off this time. Wade waits patiently at Spider-Man's feet until the blanket shifts again.

"Fine," is his very quiet reply, "But just..." he seems at a loss of what to say.

The sentiment is almost cute, but this is a very serious moment so Wade doesn't say it out loud. He doubts he'll freak out at whatever this is. He's probably seen far worse. Hell, he's probably _given_ far worse.

It feels like a million years when Spider-Man sits up and drops the blanket into his lap, squeezing it between his hands. His shoulders are hunched and his head bowed like he's embarrassed. Wade stares at the fluffy mound of dark hair with wide, paralyzed eyes, and feels that same paralysis seep into the rest of his body as Spider-Man slowly lifts his head.

It's every bit how Wade remembered it...and somehow worse.

Even through the dull light from the window, Wade can tell there's something wrong with Spider-Man's face. It's not ridged or bumpy like his, but dry, stretched and tough, pulling itself over his cheekbones like long strips of wrinkled leather. His skin is ashen and gray, the color of dead skin cells and flaking skin. When he blinks it's a slow, strenuous movement, like his eyelids are too stiff to perform their job smoothly.

Wade inhales sharply. "Oh baby, what happened?"

"Spider powers," Spider-Man replies with a wry grin that is too tight and stretches his skin to painful levels. He drops it quickly and looks away. "It's...kind of a long story."

"Does...it hurt?" Wade asks, reaching out as if to touch, but Spider-Man flinches and he quickly drops his hand.

"Yeah," he admitted, "But I'm used to it. Happens every eight months or so. It lasts only a week."

Wade shifts on his knees, hands clasped over his kneecaps, "What is it?"

It's amazing seeing Spider-Man maskless. Wade gets to watch the indecision that flickers like a shadow across his face, at his lips as they pull into a thin contemplative line and the little furrow that digs between his eyebrows. Something is mesmerizing in the way you can see him get lost in his thoughts, and Wade has the compulsive urge to gently tuck back the hair that had fallen into his face.

He eyes the glistening red spot on Spider-Man's arm and grimaces. It's probably uncomfortable wearing his suit. Wade can sympathize. A moment of discomfort flutters onto Spider-Man's face as if he too was just remembering, and Wade interrupts his thinking by gently putting a hand on the man's knee.

"Tell me about it later. Come on, it's probably uncomfortable on the floor," he holds out a hand and helps Spider-Man to his feet. The latter doesn't drop the blanket and keeps it bunched around his shoulders as if prepared to duck under it at a moment's notice.

"So," Wade shuffles his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, "What do you normally do when you start," he gestures to Spider-Man's face.

"Molting," Spider-Man explains.

Wade stares in disbelief, " _Molting_ ," he repeats, hairless eyebrows quirking. He's read about spiders shedding their exoskeleton, but he'd never imagined...

"Yes, molting," Spider-Man folds his arms, crackling like aluminum foil all the way, "I thought you said you could handle it Mr. _I'Ve-Seen-Worse-In-The-Mirror_."

"Ouch," Wade barks on a laugh.

"Hey, those were your words, not mine."

"Touche. Alright, what do you usually do when you're molting?"

Spider-Man shrugs, his defense slipping as he casts a look to the side as if to find something to occupy his eyes that isn't Wade's mask, "Just kind of hole up in here until it passes. Take a bath. Attempt to read a book. Watch stuff on my phone. You know, just let it do its thing."

"Oh," Wade nods, looking around the room too. It's every bit as messy and cluttered as he imagined. "Do...do you need any help?"

Spider-Man's head snaps to him and he scrutinizes Wade for several seconds. Wade wonders if he knows how expressive he is. He can see his hesitation in the downturn of his lips and the upturn of his brows, as clearly as if someone had painted the words on his forehead in red pen.

"No," he finally says, "I can't really rush the process. It hurts trying to," he says it on a shudder. "And...well...it's still really gross."

Wade steps back, rocking on his heels, "Ah, okay. Yep, yeah, that makes sense. So, um...is it alright if I at least check-up with you in a few days to make sure you're not going full raisin? I mean, if you are, I wouldn't mind having a raisin-face buddy. We could get shirts. But I want to make sure you're not...you know, keeling over like a dead fly. Also, I can bring you some bath salts if that will help? Some lotion? I don't know what people need when they molt, but say the word and I'll get a bunch of it." Wade has one foot out the window, trying to ignore the way his heart is plummeting as he furiously tries to untangle the other from one of Spider-Man's discarded shirts. He's rambling half to himself when a pair of hands drop on his shoulders. He freezes.

"I don't need help pulling off my skin," Spider-Man says, a smile making the edges of his cheek crack, "But I wouldn't mind some company if you're up for it."

Wade smiles back, "I'll order some pizza."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha, I think the spider quirk for this chapter is obvious, but…
> 
> Molting! Spiders molt their exoskeleton. In the Ultimate Spider-Man comic-verse it's already canon that Peter Parker's skin is extra tough/thick, as when a nurse tried to poke him with a needle, it was VERY hard TO poke him with the needle. For this story, yes, Peter's skin is extra tough, and if you were to actually pay attention when you touched him, you would notice that 'huh, is skin supposed to be this hard? Or is it just muscle?" Peter do have muscle, but it's also his skin just being extra hard, because it's not exactly an exo-skeleton, it's just an extra thick layer of skin (which also means that, yes, it is harder to stab or slice at him, but it's not impossible.)
> 
> So, when he molts, it's him growing out of his skin. The skin dries up, and since it's so thick, it can actually get leathery as he does. Molting can be extremely painful as it makes him extra sensitive to touch, and his skin peeling away can tug on all the extra tissues underneath. And whenever he moves too quickly, it cracks his exo-skeleton, which is why he sounds like a pop-rock whenever he moves. He usually has to take a week off to finish molting all the way. There are more little facts I have on his molting process, but you'll see those next chapter.
> 
> As for LSD's, I've never done drugs, or had a bad drug trip, but I did my best. I did find some good tips on what to do if someone you know if going through a bad trip and you can't get them any help, which is staying in the room with them, periodically telling them the time (or how much time passed) so they know the trip isn't going to last forever, get them to breathe deeply to calm down, and just making sure they know they're safe. Also, I got to say, I'm a sucker for those Spideypool scenes where Wade takes Peter to his apartment or one of his safehouses to take care of him.
> 
> BIG THANKS TO MY BETA-READER PETER! You're amazing!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious about what spider quirks Peter was displaying in this chapter, don't worry, Wade will be starting his investigations and you'll hear all about them. In the meantime, feel free to guess what they were down in the comments. Let's see how much you know about spiders.


End file.
